Dennis Gets Jealous
by horrortrans
Summary: Reminiscing on the past can hurt, but re-opening the wound itself also leaves it tender, leaves it bleeding out for somebody to come, and tend after - Mac thinks about their first ever scheme and decides to revisit it to earn the bar back some money; meanwhile, Dennis has some internal conflicts of his own regarding what was and, what could be.


"Our first scheme?"

_9:12 AM, on a Thursday, Philadelphia PA._

Reminiscing, is not something the gang would usually do; looking back is focusing on unimportant skirmishes that could taint your outlook on your perfectly perfumed and moisturized skin, as delicate as porcelain pigmented flower petals. At least, in Dennis's head, that was the case. His tongue coiled around words he spoke of with mild curiosity - he can't entirely recall their first scheme. Brows furrow, partially, or what was left of them, with his curls staying ever so stilted as the rest of him shifted with annoyance. Mac, however, whose eyes were bright with cheap LED's that illuminated Dennis's godly, symmetrical face so elegantly - better than any expensive ring light - began to lose his patience: of which he had very little. In fact barely five seconds passed of pondering before -

"It's ironic, dude. Like, _super,_ ironic."

And with that, Dennis clicks his tongue and then glares down at the glazed mahogany beneath him, "...It was?" Immediately after, he remembers: he's gay. That's the irony - it was -

"_The gay bar scheme!_ Don't you remember?"

"Now, I do."

"Yeah! -Like I was all, oh I can't - I can't have all these gross homosexuals in here, it's against God, it's perverted and wrong but-"

"But _you're_ gay, Mac," Dennis takes a swig of his beer, "...I know."

A small silence was shared, Mac's whole existence is one big ironic subversion of what would be expected, a rough-tough boy from a lower-class background with an absent daddy in jail and an alcoholic mother who was strictly religious, a meticulously crafted stew especially mixed to raise bigots, particularly in Philly. If anything, Dennis should have been the gay one, with make-up as a means to cope with the gruelling reality of what one truly looks like in a mirror, and his eloquent manner of speech and his middle-class upbringing, as well as a tongue as sharp as a hunting knife when time called for it. But that was _stereotypically,_ if anything, they both almost transcended a simple tick-box analogy drawn neatly, in black n' white.

"That was a wild time, man. And I mean - in my head - I was enjoying it far more than I think I let myself show." Mac bites his lip, and Dennis, spots Dee, dearest sister of avian descent, and dives for an insult, anything to cut the conversation short. Nothing too out of the ordinary, everything seemed either cut-throat or sweet and harmless between them now, North Dakota leaving a notable dent in a sturdy structure they'd held for years, there was no time for inbetween.

"Jesus Christ, has Wile E. Coyote been after you recently?"

There was no hesitation from Sweet Dee, one eye black and blond hair matted (was that _blood?_) - she waved a wad in the air - nails chipped, too.

"Meep Meep dickwads!" Her voice was hoarse but her smile pierced right through the unpleasantry - the poultry had escaped the pie! "-Stunt double. I got hit in the face for two-hundred - two words: Acting dedication."

"No… Two words: Early grave."

She shot a look of disdain, but her grin only widened.

"Oh," Mac chimed in, "I advocate for that."

"You won't be once I'm on a yacht in the Philippines."

"Psh. Only in heaven." Dennis waved his hands as to signal her away, manicured to high heaven, as a stark contrast to her own. The nitty gritty was no place for a man such as him - she scooched closer - and his nose turned upward, Mac briefly looked disgusted as to mimic Dennis's distaste before going back to a stoic, hypnotic gaze aimed at thy Golden God himself.

Dee's mouth promptly twitched,  
"...How are you guys gonna keep this bar afloat, then? You doing your part?"

And, like a mangled old mutt to a bone, Mac and Dennis's eyes were suddenly drawn to her despite their prior repulsion, "I thought that was holiday money? - Splashing your cash on supplements and spray tan and cheap make-up with a flight to Barbados to top it off? What do you mean?"

"I would, heh, I wish." Her hands dig for a cigarette and then she flicks at her lighter, "Naw. Frank's funds are low. He gave me the low-down this morning, we could be going bankrupt in like, a month. Charlie's losing it because… Well, his apartment is the cheapest I think you could ever find anywhere, and if he can't pay for that then... he's homeless."

"Why would I give a shit about Charlie, Dee?"

Mac echoes his sentiments almost like a disciple, "Yeah, Dee, I don't give a shit about Charlie - he can survive on the streets anyway - the man drinks paint! Eats rats raw!"

"Yeah, he's practically evolved beyond any of us." He places a hand upon Mac's shoulder, before quickly removing it, "Not that - you believe in that."

"You're right, I don't, but I do feel like God gave some sort of iron-stomach ability to Charlie as an infant. It's a gift, if I could live off of half the shit he downs I would!"

"It _would_ be much more cost efficient."

Dee coughs. Oh right, the question in question.  
"Frank, hadn't informed us about this - I, I don't know what we could do."

"Oh! Oh!" Mac begins to jump up and down like an elementary school student, "Dennis! I do! I do!"

Hand reaches between eyes, squeezing sheepishly at the bridge of his nose; Dennis lets out a breath, unamused, "...What."

He cups his hands together like a good Christian choir boy and thinks through his prompt, back straight and eyes wide as he eagerly elaborates, "-Well. There's a large gay following in Philly, Dennis, believe it or not - and I know a large handful of them..."

"We know that, Mac, get to the meat."

"Uh, I believe I was addressing Dennis, not you?" Mac turns away from Dee then on, and she hardly bats an eye, putting out her cig on the polished barside, "...Anyway. The Rainbow as a bar is very low quality, hardly satisfactory for a high-brow gay man such as myself." Dennis can't help but quirk an eyebrow. "There is an obvious market there! A demographic ripe for our picking! Listen, Dennis, listen, I could do stripping and pole dancing, you could be our flirty twink bartender, Dee could pander to the lesbians - _they have low standards anyway_ \- and Frank and Charlie could easily allure that weird, old and creepy percentage of gays."

Eyes blink, a million times a second - cotton buds would be used on the ears if they were so readily available, Dennis could and would hack up a good chunk of his digestive system right now, but he neglected to because this was one of the rare days where Paddy's looked… actually presentable and he... wouldn't wish to taint that because of some, silly idea Mac conjured up out of his sentimentality regarding the past. No, he must keep his guise clean, keep himself civil.

"Heh… _Mac,_ I… I uh... n-"

"..._Yes, Mac!_ Oh my god, you genius. Yes, yes, yes! I'm sure Charlie has a spare stripper pole lying around somewhere!"

It was as if the Devil had cracked the grounds open to reveal blood red lands 'neath, voice booming, matching thunder crashes of tragedy and death and destruction neverending, "_Was I talking to you?_" Dee's excited expression falls, but she tracks Dennis's clearly uncomfortable movements, even amongst her irritance.

"_Dennis,_ what do you think?" She pauses, Dennis shoots back a quick glare,_ interesting, _"Clearly Mac wants to hear your opinion."

_When doesn't he?_ "I…" He from then on, joins Mac by further ignoring his igneramous sister, focusing everything _on_ Mac - unfortunately, unfortunately. He grits his teeth and attempts to play it cool, albeit with little success, especially without his red snapback, "...Yes. I… _Love,_ the idea. I mean, personally, you are, the least flexible man I have ever seen so - you might, crash and fail and burn with the whole pole dancing thing, but at least... I'll be able to watch and laugh."

Mac flat-out ignores his comment of laughing at his presumed future failure, and instead, words of questioning stumble from his lips, "...Who_ is_ the most flexible man you've ever seen?" Half-joking, half maybe, not so much.

"Uh." He falters. "Charlie? I don't fucking know - I just know you're as stiff as a corpse. Go and practice already."

"_Charlie?_ Really?" Cocoa-butter eyes dwindle down in suspicion.

"Go, and practice."

"Will do! I'll also spread the word. Dee make sure you put it up on your Instagram, promote it Dee, promote it! _Promote it __you bitch!_" His voice becomes quieter and quieter as he backs out of the front entrance and starts to embark on a quest to find Charlie and Frank and his very own strip pole. Dee and Dennis, are subsequently, left in silence.  
In peace.

"_Sooooooooo?_"

And the peace is broken, unable to be mended, eternally disturbed. "Don't." Dennis grabs a small shot glass from behind the bar, "You dare. I don't want to see him up on a pole as much as _anybody_ with eyes that, you know, _work._"

"It's not so much that - the idea is… Kind of a goldmine, why'd you not like - immediately jump on that." She awaits a response, hauling a beer out from a mini-fridge set up just beside where she sat, "...Afraid of something?"

"Afraid that you'll get more pussy than me." He quickly swallows that back, and laughs, "No. That idea is far too preposterous, insane. No lesbians would choose you. Mac said they had low standards but God, you are… you are _six feet under!_"

"I just got money out of getting hit. I have blood on me. I am a _stunt-woman_. Aka, dumbass with good joints and unbreakable bones." She swigs some of her drink back, "Butches dig that. Plus, that list of previously mentioned bodily advantages clearly translates to: rough sex is permitted and _expected._"

Dennis shuffles, and scowls, he does not really want to consider the sexual matters of his own sister - not even with other woman.

A substantial smirk grows on Dee's face, "When was the last time you slept with a woman, anyway? Mandy? _Two_ years ago?"

"Oh, fuck off. I've put far too much effort into my looks today to hear you question my heterosexuality." He sighs, and kicks back a shot, "...I'm going to pick up some chicks."

"No, you aren't. You're going to Bed, Bath and Beyond to sulk, and don't even try to hide it." Her words echoed in his head: and it was beyond frustrating that she knew exactly his hiding spot whenever the gang just became too intrusive. "C'mon, Dennis." But no._ Remain civil._

Cue a _slam_ of the back door.  
How just.

* * *

"_I GOT THE POLE! I GOT THE POLE!_"

"Yeah, and now we've got to install it back into the place."

Quite the dilemma considering… the whole no-money thing. Mac's spree of joyous glee was brought to a grinding halt by Dee's reminder, _oh yeah,_ his half-assed celebratory dance was met with a stone-cold expression more than just displeased. Charlie then stomps his way in, with a toolbox and eyes as wild as a rabid raccoon.

"Well, the idea was that - Charlie, could like... do that."

"...He_ could, _but people would most likely die in a freak accident if we let him install it." Mac ponders, as Dee explains. _The point doesn't entirely make it to him_, though.

"Publicity?"

"No, Mac."

"Look, Dee, I'm gonna spend ALL day on this puppy so I'll make sure it's secure. Besides like, what other way are we gonna do this?" Charlie slaps the pole beside him triumphantly, and then maps out where exactly he's gonna place it. She can already feel the rising resistance to her points, she can feel that there's no stopping them; she'll just remain as far away from it as possible, simple.

"Okay. Fine. Go ahead." She clicks her tongue and trudges away without much fight. (If they die, they die, c'est la vie, que sera, sera, there is no dumbassery without consequence, and so forth.)

Charlie and Mac are thus, drawn back, into the euphoria zone - with all the necessary (and equally unnecessary) tools out to get this baby sturdy. Frank, however, who hadn't been seen in a long while, looks on with a sort of strange sad maturity, sitting in one of the bar's sections nearing the back, and Dee, never witnessing her father with such humanity gracing ones face, was naturally bound to slowly make her way toward him.

"Hey, Frank. Why, aren't cha helping?"

"Do you really expect this shit t'work? I know Charlie has his heart set on it because of Mac being so damn enthusiastic about the whole shebang but…" He raises his arms in unison with his exclamation, "I just don't see it! The gay community ain't that large here! Where are we gonna live, what are we gonna do?"

"Honestly, I'm still surprised you're so concerned. I thought you and Charlie were content with living in trash cans."

"Oh, I would've been about, ten years back, but I'm too frail now. The bins would more than likely throw out my back and, Charlie would be forced to rely on me as a source of food once old age caught up."

Dee puckers her lip and tilts her head in thought, "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Bar any warning - the pole _crashes_ to the ground as Charlie attempts to insert it through a homemade stage which he'd hauled in with his small red toolbox, barely missing Dee's frame - which had already suffered enough physical trauma in the past few hours, "Watch it, Dee!"

She merely stares at the ground, and then her eyes slowly rise to meet his; Mac keeps his eyes interlocked and unblinking in unwavering response. Charlie quickly scrambles to pick it up, and they attempt again to keep it up-right - although, stubbornly, Mac keeps his stare so intense that he subsequently trips over his own footing and almost knocks the pole in the opposite direction. Frank is... hardly surprised, he simply sighs and fishes out his wallet, bringing all of the money he has onto the tabletop.

"Deandra, get a professional in, will you? The last thing I want is for our one slim chance of actually getting good money to be labelled a homosexual massacre."

"Thank you, Frank, at least _someone_ has sense here."

Mac, despite being off-balance and half-distracted, cocks his head toward her immediately, "Who was that someone directed at, Dee? Huh? I'm the one who came up with the idea! Just because you're the fancy influencer!"

"Yeah, yeah. Be thankful that the Instagram gays love me. They're obnoxious but they have the _money's._" She rubs her fingers together and hunches like gollum with golden locks, before scampering off to find a suitable someone to actually keep the pole stable.

Scuffed trainer meets the floor, and Mac is barely holding back a temper tantrum, "We have to show her dude, we have to show her that we can install this thing without any casualties!"

Charlie successfully slides the pole into the stage and begins to work on securing it from underneath, the top meeting the ceiling perfectly, keeping it still - but still not sturdy enough to carry weight, "We will man, we will. Don't worry. I just can't believe Frank sold us out for Dee."

"_Yeah Frank_ \- how could you trust her more than us."

Mac awaits a response, and, to put it lightly, Frank isn't quick to answer, "...I don't trust any of you shits. I just think that isn't going to last a night of crotch grinding."

"Oh, it'll last so many hours. It'll last ALL the hours, Frank, just you wait."

"Oh, I'm waitin' alright."

And like that, hours pass.  
Countless noises are heard from the pub, unpleasant conking, sawing, buzzing, clanking, and so on, with a constant and colorful array of expletives, Frank leaves quickly after they actually get down to business - and Dennis is too busy back in the apartment taking care of his own luxury time to care about the stupid plan of Mac's - applying facemasks with cucumbers 'pon the eyes, soaking in a bath of rose petals whilst listening to his especially curated eighties pop and glam rock playlists, holding his best glass of chilled rosé. Dee, does not return all day, and it's soon brimming six at night, the sun is lowering itself, and Philly calls the comfort of the day to a close.

"Told you we didn't need that professional, dude."

It looks rather dodgy, but, Mac - without much thought - wraps himself around it and there is no sign of danger, no slipping, no cracking, no sudden noise that forewarned a rather painful freefall. _They did it._

"We both knew that. Frank was the one who doubted us, Dee too."

Mac jumps from the pole and stands beside Charlie, they look up in triumph at their 'creation' - all is set for tomorrow. All is well. Now, all Mac has to do is practice. Charlie, meanwhile, can go home and rest.

"-Fuck em, we did it. We showed them." He's tempted to tell Charlie to scurry, but-

Charlie smiles, eyes glittering with pride - and raises his fist, "Hell yeah dude!" He quickly puts it down again once he realizes that Mac is not joining in, "...You gonna practice or what? I'll totally act as like, your test audience."

"Really? Aw, shit man," He hesitates. "Yeah." Another pause. "Yeah, that'd be good actually. No judgement. I'd like that." No judgement, _a long time_ since he's experienced that. Actually, it's been a long time since Charlie had interacted with him for such an extended period of time. It was oddly, almost refreshing.

"Cool!" Charlie leaps off the stage and sits on the nearest stool, his eyes are like saucers and he's just, ready to compliment, "Go on! You don't need music. Feel the ebb and flow of the air, let it guide you."

Mac kinda, awkwardly nods, at Charlie's advice: _no music, okay, not easy but okay._ He coils himself around the pole and recalls back to the night of his interpretive dance, he's not quite sure why he goes there but also, he does know, the emotion of it all - the distinct fear brewing that concocted itself into something far more empowering, the tears, the acceptance, the cheers he got from it all. Suddenly the memories consumed and he became one with movement - he swung round and was upside down yet still clinging strong, twirling with a kind of grace not typically known from a man of Mac's stature, hands absorbing the metal, legs snaking seductively and arms pulsating as he adapted to every minor slide and grind and pirouette. Sweat laced his skin by the end of his attempt, hair practically glued to his forehead, his breathing heavy, but he persisted and swung himself round once more before halting himself with an unlikely elegance, hanging from the pole with one arm and leg still attached, keeping his body hovering, stopping it from making contact with the ground.

Charlie appears, out of the blur of the dance, and his scruffy brows are furrowed in a look of raw amazement, mouth unhinged, into a surprised little gape, "Jesus Christ, Mac. I thought Dennis said you were stiff? What the _fuck,_ man!" He takes a breath, a blinding beam encompassing chapped lips, "That - that was like, professional? Really,_ really_ professional!"

He then begins to chuckle - a supportive, just, _super shocked_ chuckle - and shakes his head with an expression doused in awe. Hands begin to clap, starting slow but reaching a fast, remorselessly zippy speed that could only equate to sincerity in Charlie's eyes, and Mac is transported back to the dance, that positive reception he craved - hell, he almost makes himself tear up, "Thank you - thank you, dude. I - yeah. I didn't think I could, do that." _Too bad Frank wasn't here_ \- maybe he would've recognized the parallel of rushing emotions - the passion of dance, an outlet for whatever was bottled up within.

_Speak of the imp!_

Frank comes trudging in - face puffed up like a red balloon five seconds from popping, "You're not gonna believe-" He stops in his tracks and stares at the both of them, "Huh. You've installed it, and you're practicin' without injury? Christ... Deandra, you're, off the hook."

She waddles in with her tail between her legs, followed by two muscled hunks, one of which was dearest Rex, who'd lost his weight, recently - greased up and as prime a cut as ever. "Yeah, so, uhm. I kinda used up the money to hire Rex and Jordan as your personal back-up type strippers." She takes a breath and laughs awkwardly - but she's aware that her investment was not all in vain, judging from the upright pole and Mac's wide eyes and grin in reaction to her announcement. "I felt like that was appropriate."

"_Appropriate!_ Deandra it was a goddamn waste of our money-"

"_Hey,_ Mac."

Frank is cut off mid-sentence - and he, as well as both Charlie, turn to observe Mac and Rex googly-eyeing each other into the next dimension.

"I'm sorry but, did I, miss something here?" Frank pipes up.

And without any hesitation, Mac answers, blunt - as always, "Uh. Me and Rex kinda, got together a few months back, he started going to the gym and we met up when I took those few days out of town to see the Eagles solo and we... hooked up. So, I mean… This…" He stops himself and longingly, sickeningly blinks at Rex like a schoolgirl with her first crush, "This is perfect."

"Well, at least we'll witness like - genuine gay love on stage without it being forced, right?" Charlie interjects.

"You're... " Dee butts in, "I guess you're right. The more authentic... the better."

"Shit. Everything is just, perfectly in place, then? Huh? As long as we make our money back..." Watching everyone stumble in reply, Frank struggles to come to terms with all of it - it all feels far too convenient, so he flares his nostrils and speaks of protest, "...This is gross. Ain't right. It all feels too good - I don't trust it."

There was a simultaneous agreement comprised of yeah's from both Charlie and Dee. But no word is heard from Mac, or that is until - "Just so you know, we aren't - _in love,_ in love, it was just a fling but I am also, very good at faking both affection _and_ orgasms."

"...Good to know we have two things in common." Dee spurs off to the side.

"It's all in the eyes, trust me. That's how you can tell love apart from faking it."

"How do you know Charlie? Mac fell in love with you recently?"

"Well- No, just-"

The backdoor opens and Dennis waltzes in, skin moisturized, hands freshly manicured _again, _hair fixed-up and beautifully moulded - he has a look of utter bliss upon his face, the gang briefly hushes to blink at his entrance - and he immediately notices the two half-naked buff dudes standing in his bar, "...What are two hunks doing in our bar with their abs showing? Who _allowed_ this?"

"Who do you think?" Frank bats back.

"A mixture of Dee and Mac." He shoots a particular glare at Mac, "I won't put _all_ the blame on you."

"Thanks." He smiles, his gaze of mahogany only widening, and shimmering wildly, "I didn't ask for this at all actually, but like… _Rex_ is here, _sooooo_ \- I'm not complaining."

"._..Ah._" Dennis, as a matter a fact, didn't recognize Rex, he looks upward at the man Mac is drawn closest to, equally as muscled and defined - _he'd lost all that weight from last year in his forties?_ _God_ \- and provides a small, satisfactory simper, "...Rex, it's good to see you representing the community - good man."

"I mean, Dee just sorta hired me."

Dennis bites the side of his mouth - not out of annoyance, rather, out of something he can't quite explain, "_Oh._ So - you're going to pole dance, _with _Mac?"

"Yeah, basically. And Jordan, too." He says, with a kind, ignorant smile.

"Huh." His simper turns spiteful and tugs at newly-balmed lips, he sucks back some anger - but the remainders spit out of his gums with a tone as harsh as sandpaper and sawblades, "...Maybe _I_ should just join you! You seem very keen on inviting men to pole dance,_ Mac,_ Dee. Why not me?"

"Well, Dennis, you really weren't keen on the idea five hours ago let alone learning to pole dance. Why would you want to join in now?"

Mac puffs his chest out, breathes inward and raises his hand up halfway as to take his stance of protecting Dennis's words, but - he sinks into the floor - he can't, truly defend him, "Dee's right. You, there's no reason for you wanting to join in. You hated the whole concept, man." You didn't have to say it for him to know. He could read you well enough.

_How dare you defy me?_ "_Well!_" He huffs, "People change!"

"It's a rare occasion."

"Oh _shut up_ already bird!"

"Look, Dennis," Mac shifts away from Rex, and suddenly his posture simmers, and unstiffens itself, "You can join in if you want - _I have no objection to that_ \- but it's only one night. There's like, nothing to stress over. You can show off your body literally any other time, there's no need to get jealous just because Rex gets paid for it."

"...I - I don't want to pole dance for the sake-" Dennis stops himself, the rest of the gang, bar Mac, are squinting their eyes - and murmuring among themselves, "Nevermind."

"Okay." He pauses, momentarily. "I'm… gonna go through a practice run in a few hours but everyone else can leave or whatever." He pulls himself closer to Dennis, and his tone quietens, "You can stay and join in, or not. Honestly you are, confusing me, man. I… just need to make sure _I'm _ready for tomorrow."

"Alright, Mac." Dee chirps, already halfway out the front door.

"Yeah, nobody cares. C'mon Charlie let's go." And so they do, following Dee thereafter.

* * *

Rex and Jordan stand in Paddy's for a minute or two, the others have left within the blink of an eye. Dennis glares on like a predatory hawk looking to kill. Mac is oblivious as he begins to warm up - but turns - and, "Hey! You Jabronis too! You don't need the practice, you're legitimate professionals, and I don't need the judgement! Save it for tomorrow!"

They could have given good pointers, truthfully, but due to Mac's demands they subsequently scuttle and separate. Dennis still looms and Mac finds his presence now, jarring, even after fourteen years of remaining practically inseparable, "...Dennis, I didn't, uh, _expect _you to stay. You okay? Do you _want_ to stay?"

"No, I'm just-" He quickly squats to pretend he's grabbing a drink, "-getting some beer, the apartment supply is sparse."

"No, it isn't dude we-" He pauses, blinks, "...Okay."

Dennis's face flares, shit. "Was, uh, did you find Rex's - did you think Rex was eyeing you up back there?"

"Uhm. Yeah, he - he was. We had a fling a few months ago, it was great and, ended on a positive note so, I mean, why wouldn't he?" There's a break in conversation,_ why, why wouldn't he?_ Dennis is left crouching as he listens, intently, for an answer to a question that is rhetorical. "Plus, it'll only add to tomorrow's performance."

He can barely allow the words to leave his mouth, he still isn't sure why, it's like his throat is filled to the brim with cement, slowly hardening as he struggles to talk, to breathe, "You... had a fling?"

"Yeah."

His tone is so casual and it makes Dennis nearly retch. Why? _Why?_

"Dude, I don't get it - you had flings all the time. Why are you... acting so weird, about_ Rex?_"

"Firstly-" Dennis pops up from behind the bar-top, the cement is gone, his lungs are wide and he is raring to shoot back verbal bullets, "-I've barely seen Rex a minute, I'm not acting weird, I'm just having a weird day, _okay?_ And keyword, 'had' Mac, 'had'. My sex life has been uninspired and lonely as of late. Truth be told I'm, I... woman, I can't, it, it just doesn't-"

"-You're bad at picking up chicks." Mac ends his sentence, and Dennis looks upward with a face that spells denial, "You've lost your spark, man."

"I've hit a _wall._" Dennis murmurs, he swallows back what ego he has, a mighty fine ton of it, and elaborates, "...It's not that I can't - it's that I don't want to. It's - _it's,_ I've hit a wall, that's the only way I can describe it." He shrugs and splays his hands out. He doesn't know. And Mac sure as Hell doesn't know, either.

"Can't help you there. Now if it were guys you were after, I would be your perfect chaperone but," Mac shrugs in response, too, "_Can't help you being straight._"

Dennis doesn't respond, he just silently seems to agree - or at least, that's what Mac interpreted his lack of an answer as. He then pops the cap off of his beer and broods to himself, baby blues transfixed on the floor as Mac continues, more slowly, with his warm-ups. Now, he wouldn't state it - but he wasn't going to practice in front of Dennis - the scrutiny of it all, the prospect of humiliation tensed his bones and made his nervousness act up, freezing his joints, a problem he hardly faced, Charlie was forever supportive, whereas Dennis was a seething critic of everything Mac. It was like facing a King as a mere Jester. You were the sideshow, and if you didn't commit to your part, and impress his Majesty, you'd be axed - apart from, Mac could never die from Dennis's insults, of course, he'd only retain internal wounds that _felt_ like the fatal cuttings of a thousand axe.

...He, _really_ did need to practice, though.

"Hey, Den."

Eyes glint upward, _Den,_ now that name hasn't been used in a while, "...Yeah?"

"...Um. I want to practice, but, I, I don't think I can do it, in front of you."

Dennis rolls his tongue back - eyebrow quirking upward at the implication, "...You know you're going to have to do like, a full hour set of pole dancing, in front of me, tomorrow? Right?"

"...Yeah but - you know. It's not, I can't do this with only you, here."

Dennis opens his mouth to protest, there's almost a flicker of orange ember, waiting to turn into a bonfire of clashing, roaring flames within his eyes, but he then he halts, grabs his extinguisher and puts it all out. "...I get it. I'm an intimidating man. I'll judge and you won't be able to handle it, I get it, I get it." He raises his hands and brushes the request off as if it's nothing, "No biggie. I totally understand."

"Thank you, Dennis." Mac lets out a sigh. "I promise I won't let you down." His second sentence comes out as a mere whisper.

* * *

Dennis begins to walk out of the back, yet he still hears the 'promise' and instinctively closes his eyes at the addition - unnecessary, there was no need. Not that it _bothered him all that much,_ in fact he just felt rather flighty and near the edge of a cliff that is slowly crumbling beneath him, he could move, but the view is so beautiful, he could leave but something is telling him not to. Something, is telling him to meet with the sea, to become one with the rubble and dirty waves.

He faux closes the door. The clunk indicates he has left, and he can already hear Mac scoping the bar to grab the hidden boombox to put on music. His heart is in his mouth. What the fuck is he doing? Has he sniffed some of Charlie's glue recently? Gotten re-addicted to crack for the tenth time? This was, there was no reasoning for this, _why do I want to see this_ \- he asks, but there is no reply._ Why_ do I want - _what_ do I want?

_Who_.

Mac begins. And Dennis huddles by the backdoor watching from a small crevice - he feels pathetic - but all of this relights some of his voyeuristic fantasies so he doesn't _feel_ too dumb, he's too distracted by watching what Mac has to offer, albeit cradled in the dark and cleaning supplies, he does _look_ it.

Mac caresses the pole - he does the same moves as he did in front of Charlie, but with even more finesse, minor flicks of the wrists and facial expressions to exude and further an erotic feeling, less so of one of passion merely dance-wise - he has to appeal to those who want to watch something arousing. And those who don't want to admit they want to watch something arousing. Dennis now knows why Mac wouldn't exactly want to perform this in front of him, and him alone. He's red, and it's barely been two minutes, he would blame it on embarrassment but he keeps staring at the sweat through his shirt molding his muscles, and his lusty expressions, his thrusts. It's hypnotizing, and Dennis barely registers what comes with such a realization as he feels himself hot and bothered and watching from afar and...

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Dennis's eyes bloom wide, the sea engulfs and he's drowning in it - instead of embracing the flow, he's thrashing actively against it. His hands touch downward, and stimulate, and only then does he discern what exactly he is doing. _No. Fuck. FUCK._ He zips his pants back up. When in the Hell did he unzip them? Water fills his lungs. He gulps it back, and chokes, and scrambles to his feet. The music still booms, _Frankie_ is insulting him at this point - humiliating - _Relax _screams over the speakers but Dennis can do anything but. He goes to open the back door again, carefully open it, carefully, but his foot trips over the mop strewn across the tiles, and he hits it without even having the luck of falling outside. He can feel Mac's eyes. _Shit, shit. Open it you fucking moron, open-_

He crawls, through the crack of the back door and doesn't want to look back. He runs to their apartment. He blocks all thought. He unlocks the door. No thought, no thought. He slumps onto the couch. Nothing. No thoughts. And onto the bed. Don't think. Don't. He closes his eyes. Don't fucking think.

But he does, he does anyway.

The seminar. Stop the kissing. The touching, not because I hate you, not because I don't want it but, but. He was so needy - so constant with his affections that it gave you gooseflesh - but, but it's been a good year, a good few years, the B&B scheme, the Gay Pride Parade that got you pissed and was, fun, weirdly enough, although Mac was nowhere to be found, the support Mac provided after your makeupless form was revealed - nobody else would have dared, before that The RPG, you're the Honey to my Vinegar, the Wind beneath my Wings, the monthly dinners, living together in the suburbs, the bleachers, the shared sexual endeavors with woman and sex tapes that have since been suppressed… The list went on, and on, for fourteen years. North Dakota began a rift, Dennis soon notices, he wanted to get further away, to avoid Mac, to push away his love. He was always far too full-on. But now, looking back, feeling this, seeing all of what is about to happen tomorrow, he has to come to terms with something.

Love is real, and, perhaps he has found it.

Perhaps, it has been staring him in the face for years and he didn't want to admit it - perhaps, he pushed Mac away because, the prospect of loving Mac was so strange. Loving men, not so much. No. It was loving _Mac. _He couldn't handle it. And so, he tried to fill his Godhole with something superficial, something vapid - mindless sex with woman he didn't care about, to uphold his poster-boy stance of a playboy, an erotic connoisseur, a master of the sexual arts. In the moment, yes, yet - out of it, one could only brag for so long until it became bland and you had nobody left to satisfy you.

Mac had been trying to satisfy and provide for him ever since they met.

Dennis clenches his jaw. He took advantage of that, a lot. But now, after a long, long time of carelessness, comes the repercussions. _Now, _the feelings. Big feelings. A rare thing for Dennis. The pity, the amount he owes back is infinite. He wants to finally fill that gaping void in him, he knows, he knows now, unlike any other Mandy or Maureen he's been with, Mac is the one. Fourteen years sticking together as friends, is longer than some _actual_ marriages - it's far more than a simple friendship, or the one-sided obsession of a gay man and the ignorance of a straight.

It's not as if he didn't ask for it, or even subconsciously want it, sometimes. No.

It's just, Mac had changed ever since his closet door had opened itself. He was so much more submissive and passive and blind to Dennis's demands, an accursed push-over - _he loved to be heard and for his demands to be fulfilled, naturally_ \- but part of the man he grew to love had dissipated into the thin night air to be replaced with someone who was unrecognizable. That drama, that distinct fiery attitude Mac withheld before he came out, all of his interests, his personality, swiped away with obsessive love that held Dennis up to that of a rare flower caught in a storm, bound by way of the ground clinging for its safety. Dennis wanted Mac to be himself again. Not a husk for Dennis to stare into and for nothing to stare back. He had loved Mac before, but found himself to be too much of a womanizer to dare make his moves. And then Mac had loved, still loves, but it was the wrong kind, something is changing now, but it _was_ wrong, a kind of worship, that despite thine Golden God's self-proclaimed title, felt too as if it were too much, too unnatural, unfamiliar, unlike the man he loved before.

He felt himself flare up, skin a sickly white. It made him feel like he was an object of desire and defense, rather than something Mac could love with any sort of tenderness, it was all to impress, like the mating dance of a Peacock, and frankly - Dennis couldn't stand it. Protect me, do not serve me. Embrace me, do not just, _touch _me. Love me,_ really _love me, no restrictions - and do _not_ fear me. He grabs at his pillow and hooks his arms around it. Mac would kneel at your every whim but you want anything but his dependance. He buries his head into the fabric. Sometimes, you need a shoulder to cry on, a man to promise you more, to look you in the eyes and whisper sweet nothings. But Mac would wait for you to do that._ But you want Mac to do that. _To make his own decisions, to not ask - and fret - and stutter, but to _do._ And not entirely based around you. You want to see him happy besides others, see him defy you and get angry with you and actually show that he can love, but not mindlessly - not without his own opinions - you want to see the man you fell in love with, and you want to see him flourish, but.

He's a wallflower and he's promptly nudged against you and growing around you.

And, if you cut the stem now, he will wilt, and you will be left with nothing but remnants of his love, turned, bitter charred hatred, scattered on your clothes, around your apartment, in the bar, everywhere you walk, like ash to the air after a disastrous flame engulfs your very home, contaminating every pore.

All you would have left are the faint reminders of what could have been. Specs of what you once had, and neglected to cherish.

* * *

Just like that, he hears a knock. Clear as day.

A recent trend had been leaving their front door unlocked, mainly because they couldn't pay for a new lock after the McPoyles arose from the grave and attempted to burn their apartment down as a means of revenge for their own third-degree burns and disfigurements. Right about now, Dennis was almost missing Ryan and Liam dearest, stinking of sweat, mouldy-milk and slick with grease and piss, he wishes this was them - that they'll ram through the door in a moment or two after their vague attempt at being polite, and sautee him with gasoline, before flambaying him to a perfectly dead crisp.

But it's Mac. Like a fool, he knocks. He knows it's open but he still knocks.

It's a ploy to get him to talk. To ask him about what he was doing curled up in the corner of the back room, settled in the low-light, with his hands down his pants._ And fuck me_, Dennis thinks to himself, impulsively, _what do you think I was doing?_ His breath hitches, however, caught at the back of his throat. The confrontation will arise of wanting Mac back as Mac - and God knows how he will take it, maybe he'll throw around the term 'internalized homophobia', maybe he'll just call Dennis 'homophobic' and leave it at that, and continue obsessing despite his resistance. Not because he doesn't want Mac, he just wants Mac to listen and fulfill the dynamic he wants rather than putting his own idyllic, and frankly, unrealistic and selfish relationship ideas first. There has to be a mutual point of understanding. Dennis just doesn't know whether or not Mac can even get to that point.

Alas, he hauls himself up, his limbs feeling like sacks of soil and sediment forcefully bound to his body, weighing him down as he tries to move to the door. He slumps, from side to side, gravity is actively pushing against him, but it's only a few more steps, but it feels like a haze, but it's only a few more steps, but it feels like a lifetime has passed before his hand places itself upon the door handle and slowly begins to open, the click of the jambs and the hinge scraping the floor. He pulls it all the way back, savoring the moments where he doesn't see him, not yet, and with caution, he takes a second to look at the floor and gather his thoughts.

Mac is stood there, in a mesh tank top, with a new rocket for the RPG, for it was useless without ammo, and Dennis immediately spirals into a spur of confusion, no words are aloud out from his mouth, just noises. What? He was just wearing one of his sleeveless tops, 'Detroit Boys Club' typed up on it, n' baggy trousers? Now he's adorning _this_, all of a sudden? Dennis almost screams at him but tries to hold back his voice, and his tears, comprised of an amalgamation of an array of things; bubbling anger, bewilderment, somewhat of a misguided and unwelcome attraction to him like this, a bit of fear, too, peeking from behind his eyes, what would come of this, what would be damaged, and unlike their apartment, would be unable to be recovered or replicated or recycled into something new, from the residuum.

"Den."

His eyes are like puppy dog's, drooping and unreasonably innocent - this isn't fair, his rage cannot unleash itself now, not after the emotional backlash he'd suffered seconds ago, on top of what he witnessed, the threat of tomorrow, of a possible confrontation now - "What, Mac?"

"I'll prove myself to you."

He drops to his knees, and Dennis immediately swears on his soul, his sweaty, malnourished, disgustingly narcissistic little soul that he doesn't want this. But Mac isn't depending on him, he isn't, is he? Dennis, is depending on him. He's not saying out loud, but he doesn't need to, Mac can read him intrinsically, every minor twitch is like adding a page and a half of inner-monologue, and it is beautifully frustrating. A language of subtlety, something they, let alone the whole of the gang, barely knew of.

"In all the_ right _ways."

Dennis trips back a little, planting himself onto the arm of their couch, but his eyes stay fixed. He wants Mac to continue.

"...I don't love Rex. He didn't mean anything. He was a fling, a_ fling, _Dennis. I love you, but I know that's a lot to take in, and I know that all you've known are flings as a form of love, rough, meaningless love. That's all you've ever chased, dude." The acclamation of love wasn't the Dennis couldn't 'take in', he was willing to accept and embrace that, it was the announcement of flings as a form of love, that Dennis grew wide-eyed at. It's true, he's never loved properly, and no wonder, not even the sickest fuck would willingly choose Dennis Reynolds as a husband. But, Mac, Mac... "...I'll become my own man, Dennis. Just because I'm growing away doesn't mean I won't come back to you. You can depend on me. I know how much you hate to lead, I know how much you want a rest from that, from me, sometimes, because I'm overwhelming and I don't know when to stop, and when I ask, and worry, and wait for your approval, that is exactly when you want me _not_ to stop."

Dennis struggles. He's been struggling a lot, lately, with everything, but this has left him broken. Not in a bad sense, no, he's - astonished, and frozen in the moment, it's almost as if he can read his mind, "...Mac. Mac." He slurs, and staggers, he doesn't know what he's saying, he doesn't know what he's going to say, he really doesn't know why Mac hasn't brought up the pole dancing incident yet, but, but he doesn't care - he just looks on with the sort of look a forty-year old with a repressed love for his best friend would, his expression softens itself, whole body numb with a warmth encasing it, holding him still, with the entire spectrum of his endearment coming to fruition, allowing him to finally fall back in love.

He's no longer thrashing against the natural flow, no longer drowning. He is atop the water and feels every singular ripple. There's a strange, rare serenity in this moment. Especially considering how they typically are, all loud and abrasive and painfully apathetic. But now there's a distinct peace.

"So I won't ask." _Because he doesn't need to._

It's a blur to Dennis, but he places the Rocket down onto the floor, _how absurd this whole predicament is, _and crawls toward him and it's black and everything is out of focus for a second - he feels hands upon his shoulders and Mac pulls himself up, to Dennis's height, but still somewhat underneath him as he's, sat on the edge of the couch, and,

His lips are like velvet and taste of alcohol fills his mouth and it burns but it soothes. It's the definition of bittersweet, an oxymoron of comfort and unfamiliarity, but they're almost too familiar, his hands aren't rough and calloused in their intimacy as Dennis would have expected, they curve and are slick and relentlessly delicate and intricate, reaching his shoulder blades and travelling down his back as Mac slowly arises with Dennis's lips still interlocked and desperate. His back arches, with Mac rising atop him, before he pushes him back down onto the couch, his hands move from his back to join with Dennis's, clenching the fabric beneath, small gasps escaping their long embrace of lips and intertwined tongues, nostrils flaring as the friction builds between them. _This was it._ There was no going back, and fuck, he didn't want to. They, in their prime, early-twenties, almost fucked several times in public restrooms, almost fucked a couple times in the apartment too, but it never - went anywhere beyond a quick peck before they chickened out, for a million, now, wholly insignificant reasons. This was what he'd always wanted. And it's tender, and it's dirty, and weird and unexpected, just how he wants it, a bite to the neck and Dennis is promptly frothing at the mouth, whole body succumbing to the sensation, sensitive to Mac's every whim.

Fourteen years of waiting for reciprocation, or rather, a settled understanding, a level ground between them both so that their relationship could finally become something more, would quite literally blue-ball anyone into submission if that said reciprocation was thrust upon you with a sudden, passionate kiss and an embrace of rowdy, yet still careful, affection, and now hickeys, and tongues and it then goes further than it's ever gone before. And Dennis, Dennis was among bliss. Unbridled and whining and his hips are bucking and Mac is looking on with those hazel pools of his, in pride and admiration and pleasure and at first they try to conceal the noise but Dennis can't help himself, plus - soon enough he can hardly be bothered to care. One can only bite at their knuckles for a certain amount of time before something has to be let loose. It's as if he's reaching a higher plane, all thought that clouded this ideal before has gone, and he is left with nothing but clarity. Mac has taken his role of control and dominance, and Dennis adores it - Mac, Mac has never looked so fulfilled in his life. Being up so close highlights the beauty of him, which Dennis would be too ashamed to point out aloud beside the others, but he can moan to him between their thrusts and unintelligible mumbles of ecstasy.

It's not even the sexual aspect, really, it all feels overflowing with emotion even though they're hardly saying anything at all, they know each other so well that it feels like some kind of marriage of the body, of two sick souls, or a sacred ritual, or just, any kind of important event of which tears will soon emerge out of and nothing will ever quite be the same. _The turning point of their love._ The inherent romance, the meaning, behind every movement, no matter how minor. It maps out their prior years, how much they have taken notice of one another, how both oblivious and extremely perceptive they both are to each others needs.

And Dennis feels himself losing grip of Mac.

The delight of his touch still maps his body, the bite marks still groove into his skin, but he's gone, just as they reached their peak, the surrounding air replaces his body, the embrace is now empty, and Dennis is left shivering and sensitive to the cold as he awaits some kind of payoff to their endeavors. But nothing is left. Mac's admittance, his honest words are empty and lies themselves, too, because those words were conjured up out of Dennis's head.

Everything was.

A needy gasp is let out of his lungs, and he jolts out of bed.

* * *

He fell asleep soon after his thoughts overran his brain - it was all a fucking dream, Dennis knows himself to look awful, feeling the make-up he forgot to remove wet and stain his pillows, did he cry whilst he slept? Does he look like a ghost now, all weathered and wretched? All of that which he experienced, was, was _fake?_

A knock. Not again, he can't go through it again, "What, what the fuck?"

"Dennis, it's me." Mac squeaks, from behind his bedroom door. "...Are you, okay?"

"_Who else would it be Mac! - Who else lives in this apartment!_" He can't stop thinking about the dream, and now he, Mac, the man of his very desire, is stood out there like a lemon sounding like the equivalent of a baby chipmunk, "I'm, I'm fine." His eyes hasten toward the door, despite it all being in his head, he still has his suspicions. "Why's that?"

"Uh. Well, I wasn't like, listening in or anything man, but it was sounding like you were having night terrors or something," Dennis gives a little chuckle at that, "...You kept making noises and I wasn't sure whether you brought a girl home or something or if it were nightmares or, what."

"No, Mac. It wasn't, it wasn't night terrors." _It was you, it was you and I in love and fucking._ He couldn't imagine saying that out loud. "Thanks for the concern, though."

"No... problem, dude."

And like that, he walks away.  
His footsteps become faint and it's as if yesterday, last night never even happened. Dennis sinks, into his mattress, and promptly ignores what he has to beat off as soon as Mac leaves the apartment to practice his pole-dancing further. He spends a few minutes absolutely blank-faced, static reigning his brain, as he stares to the wall ahead of him. How can he move past that, normally, without acting up? Without wanting to pull off some Shakespearean, Juilliard-level profession of love and belonging, or singing You're The Wind Beneath My Wings again in Guigino's except ending it with a kiss and running off without paying the check?_ How could he not want to raw-dog him right now, on the couch, just as he dreamed?_ Except, technically, Mac would be raw-dogging him, if he_ truly_ wanted to be factually accurate. But, how _could_ he… Move on? He shakes his head and hisses, the amount of lovesickness flooding his veins felt so sweet and sickly but also, he just, felt dower and grey and bogged down with so much emotion, it was all a rouse, one of both momentary horniness and a much more deep-seated adoration - this must have been what Mac has felt like for the past couple years. And admittedly, it did feel pretty fucking awful.

He scoops up the surrounding blankets and shoves them off of him, to the side - he hardly wants to move but he has to go down there, to support Mac somewhat, or to admit his love, or to grow envious or - whatever, he's not quite sure what to expect, he gets on some jeans and his signature blue and grey striped sweater and sulks for a good five minutes. Mac has already left, so there's no fear in him having to be interrogated with a mascara-ridden complexion and a dozen kleenex surrounding him. He does his business and tries to calm himself, Chamomile tea made in their little kitchen corner as he observes the streets of Philly, with a scrutinizing eye now replaced, somewhat, with one finding instead some well-needed hush in the urban landscape. The coo of heavy traffic and view of locals robbing neighbours wrought a peace that was... _wrong_, yes, but he's trying to find some goodness in the morbid sides of downtown, anyway. There isn't much else that could untense his nerves. He sips, at the last of his drink, opens the door, and then slowly embarks to Paddy's.

* * *

"Alright. So how does one-hundred _plus _gays sound to you, Mac? Huh?" Dee proceeds to show him the thousands of likes on her post as well as the many direct messages she's gotten from the LGBT+ community, and he blinks, once, and then twice.

"Doesn't that say thousands? One thousand, two-hundred and eighty-three likes- doesn't that mean, _a thousand-plus_ gays?"

"That's not how Instagram works dummy, I very much doubt that a thousand people will travel here, logically you've got to think smaller, and if they do, I hope Dennis feels like his sunny self today because he'll have to put a helluva lot of elbow grease in to serve the customers."

Mac immediately grits his teeth, "Yeah. About Dennis…"

"Oh, what's up with him _now?_"

The front door is thrown open and Dennis waltzes himself in with the best false smile he can muster - which immediately makes Mac grimace, and Dee simply look on with a half-concerned and half-nonchalant, honestly, _unfazed _expression; her brother fakes his pearly-white grins all the time, personally she doesn't see the significance in it, but clearly Mac does. She glares back at Mac, and then back at Dennis, and then back at Mac, then Dennis, then, she comes to a conclusion that is far too perfect to be true. At least, _yet._

"Oh my God." Her smile spreads from cheek-to-cheek, sickeningly, but she just manages to stop herself and realizes how conveniently timed their conquests are, right on the day of Paddy's trying out, or_ re-using,_ their Gay Bar Method - albeit her theory is just that, a theory, and Dennis quickly catches onto what she's implying. She knows. They all know. "...Have you?"

"No, Dee." His eyes are rabid, and flicker toward her. He's jittery and all kinds of uncomfortable, and she can smell it, even through his silky cologne. He flares his nostrils. And Mac just watches on, uncertain of what exactly they're talking about.

"Uh. Are we going to discuss, _stuff,_ Dennis?" Mac speaks quietly and with some hesitation, but this only makes him look even more conspicuous to his sister - _'you have, haven't you?'_ she mouths - and he wishes, but no.

He rubs at his temples and swallows back his fears, but does not _confront _them, "No. Mac. We're not." He's only digging his grave deeper. Mac has always had a face, of inherent kindness, one you could trust and always find a tinge of softness hidden deep, but now, he was nothing but the face of wrath, and distinct sadness, intrinsic to the core. Dennis was hoping, that Mac never heard nor saw him scurry out of the back entrance, but he knew by the way he was acting, no longer confident and loud and colorful nor quick to argue, that Mac was well-aware of Dennis's own inhibitions.

"We have to."

Maybe Dennis stand-corrected.

The sadness seemed to funnel itself to wrath, as a kind of inner purification method, to be rid of his sorrow he has to separate it out and convert those feelings to that of outer rage. It's how he copes. Dennis's eyes widen, he doesn't want this to be where his possible future is buried, he doesn't want his confession here, not now, at least - he doesn't want Dee to fucking ruin the moment. "Yeah. Sure." His false grin grows, "...Your pole dancing was incredible, Mac. Looking forward to seeing more of it tonight."

If anything, that would either dampen his fury or worsen it. Mac's brows lower, his lips quiver minutely, and his face goes a deep shaded red. Dampened it. Perhaps Dennis's smile wasn't so false now. "I… You. Uhm. Th-thanks, man."

"So... you stayed to watch?" Dee is fishing for a reaction, but Dennis refuses to provide it, "Seems like you're pretty into the idea now, huh, Dennis?"

"Well, if it makes us back our money." He glints at Mac. "Which I'm sure it will."

"And maybe Mac'll find a boyfriend in the process."

And, there's the kicker. Dennis feels as if he's been shot. Dee knows exactly what she's doing, she's his twin for fuck's sake, so she has the exact amount of cunning that he has - and she eyes him up and down as he struggles to respond, _maybe Mac's already found one, _he thinks, but he can't say it as his lips are sewn shut but Mac seems to be thinking the exact same thing, they are in-sync and Mac's lips are never sewn and, "...Maybe I've already found one."

Her eyes light up. "I knew it!" She caws, "I fucking! Knew it!" Dee does a little celebratory jump-up and down that morphs into a sort of, funky wiggle, "-Not to conspirisize about your romantic and sexual lives though because, you know, one: you're my brother so... ew, and two: I honestly couldn't give less of a shit but - I mean, it's about fucking time! Jesus Christ!"

"I allow everybody else to do it but Dee, don't say the Lord's name in vain, you bitch."

"Woah, woah, woah-" Dennis halts them, no silly banter, no stupid comments, he puts his hand on Mac's shoulder and doesn't retract it, only tightens it, "Nothing is confirmed. Nothing. Okay?" He draws himself closer to Mac, mouth nearing his ear as he whispers further, "Nothing, Mac. There's a lot more surrounding this than, just, oh, I suddenly love you now, okay? We'll... discuss this after tonight."

Mac doesn't take anything negative from his postponing of their _possible_ relationship, he simply turns to face him, and whispers back, "You loved me before, didn't you?"

"Well," Dennis couldn't speak any quieter if he tried, "I went through loads of different flings, but they never stuck and I always came back to you. I, I have Brian Jr, but I ditched him and Mandy to come back to see you guys, to see _you_ and move back in with _you,_ as well as never living with anybody else, ever, in fourteen whole years, besides North Dakota, obviously, and I think _that_ \- tells you the answer." He pauses for breath, and Mac is somewhat dumbstruck. "_I could have kicked you out years ago_ if I hated you as much as I claim - I mean, I pay for everything, but I won't._ I don't want to._"

"..._Fourteen years_ dude." There is a hitch in Mac's breath, Dennis realizes how close they are, their lips are literally about an inch apart - no, Dennis closes his eyes, _not yet_, "That's, that's longer than some… _Actual_ marriages last."

"I know." He pulls away. A little fluttering sigh eases past Mac's lips. "I know."

They slowly re-emerge from their small discussion, and they see that Dee had moved away, to their surprise, and she'd served herself up herself a cocktail, specifically a Caribbian Paradise (_most say it's better than bustin' a nut_) and turns toward them, pinky out, "...What? You think I'm gonna listen into you being soppy? The evidence is there, and has been there for_ years,_ you guys are together, it's all good. Even better for tonight I guess. Mac gets to be your own special eye-candy."

Dennis laughs, sheepishly, and Mac's whole demeanor almost sparks with some sudden awareness of his control over Dennis - not overtly so - but in a subtle sense. It clicks with him, automatically, that this may be what Dennis wants, and has always wanted. Mac wraps his hand around Dennis's own, and at first he resists, momentarily, before letting himself go, allowing himself to accept Mac's grasp, his fingers mesh with Mac's and the statue of delicate porcelain, carved in the likeness of Michelangelo's David, dares to blush. His encompassing smirk is one of a guilt-ridden love, one he wants to vocalize but also wants to wait until the perfect moment, and _then_ he can scream it aloud to the Gods themselves. He'll just have to wait, they'll just have to wait. And for once, Mac doesn't really mind.

The door is propelled forward so hard that the hinges almost break, Charlie skids in with a box overflowing with what looked to be various items made of leather and various flags and Frank follows him, slowly plodding his way inward - with much less excitement in his bones, "We got some goodies! We also snagged some rainbow-branded alcohol." He points back at Frank and he holds up a smaller box that clinks and clanks as he moves it.

"How did you get all of that if… We have virtually no money?"

Charlie taps his dirt-encrusted digit onto the bridge of his nose and smiles gleefully, "Well, dearest Dennis, connections are the name of the game and-"

"-We got 'em off of Cricket, he hoards tons of garbage." Frank cuts Charlie off, and Charlie shrinks as soon as his words are interrupted - nodding lowly in agreement, "We need to wash the leather though, we don't know what's gone on inside the jockstraps and I don't think we wanna know. The flags and alcohol are all good though."

"You taste tested them to make sure they aren't water?" Dennis asks again, he's being extra pedantic about this whole event, "Or piss? Or paint?"

"Of course we taste tested! What do you take us for!"

"Yeah, and one of them actually was paint. Charlie drank it all."

"Well, about seventy percent paint - thirty percent water, it'd been diluted a bit." Charlie mumbled, before he opens his mouth to show off a vibrant turquoise staining his whole throat thick, "It was refreshing. Blue's probably - my favourite flavor of paint."

This wasn't unusual, Charlie liked his unusual 'drinks' and 'foods', most of which you wouldn't label as drinks, or foods. Dee shuffles herself toward the boxes and has a peek whilst Mac and Dennis just look and listen on with their typical, judgemental gaze.

"Who's going to remind him blue isn't a flavor."

Mac shrugs in reply. "Maybe it is."

Dennis blinks, he could pull his own hair out right about now, "How much of a full-blown himbo do you have to be, Mac?"

"Twunk versatile first, himbo second.I'll always be a twunk versatile_ at heart._"

He sighs, and decides it would be best not to spur off into tangents of mini-conversation revolving around Mac's identity as a gay man, or a full-blown moron - but to stay focused, today was _the_ day, and so, he zones back into Charlie and Frank's conversation and,

"Yeah, yeah, he converted me to blue flavor recently."

"_Christ!_ You guys are still rambling on about this shit?" Dennis unlocks his hand from Mac's and jumps for the box Charlie has, snatching it away from Dee's curious gaze - and the cardboard almost hits her clean onto the floor, "The Gay Day at Paddy's is today. Charlie I'm ashamed of you, you're usually ahead of the game, man."

"I know Dennis! I know! Don't worry man,_ I won't let you down. _It's- it's mostly Frank, he doesn't have much faith in this whole thing,"

"He doesn't?"

"From what I've heard you didn't either! What's changed?"

He places the box upon the table-top and has a good look - Judas Priest hats, fingerless gloves, fishnets, there's even a pair of ink black Stilettos and _perhaps_ he is tempted to grab them for himself. He rummages further and briefly ignores Frank's voice of interrogation, and he pulls out a cat o nine tails and Mac's eyes grow bigger than his face, he quickly dips it back into the multitude of fabrics, and feels himself lose sight of his reply, "I- I didn't, you're right. But, I think Mac has a good plan, and I think we'll draw in quite a few people."

"And what did Mac have to_ do_ to make you say that?"

"He didn't have to_ do,_ anything." His attention is parted from that of the box, and instead is driven back to Mac's free palm, of which he gently clasps, and Mac's stupid simper grows as soon as his touch returns. "Tonight will be a good night, Frank."

"Psh." He flaps away Dennis with his hand and crawls to a stool to ignore every one of them.

"I can get him into the spirit, don't worry about it." Charlie beams at both Mac and Dennis, he grabs various bits from the box and vacantly tops his head with one of the hats - the wrong way round, "He's just in a bit of a funk, mainly 'cause - you know, no money means no apartment and no grilled Frank's or Rum Ham or Denim Chicken, it's a bit of a bummer."

"We know, Charlie, we also - live in an apartment. And need money to live, in said apartment."

"Yeah - and we're also much less advanced than you by way of eating rats and drinking paint."

"Eh, it's natural selection, dude." Charlie shrugs, before he scampers over to pat Frank on the back and subsequently get yelled at in gibberish and expletives. He plops the hat onto Frank's balding head - still the wrong way round - and it's as if all is forgiven.

Mac then resides himself by the bar and slumps himself down, Dennis stares up at the clock, around five-minutes out of sync, and it displays twelve-thirty-three, Dee is tapping away at her phone as if her life depends on it. Everything goes strangely quiet. It's rare moments like these that they wouldn't admit they'd savor, being in each others general vicinity but not violently ripping at each other - the occasional riff was fun, the arguments, as brutal as they always were, were a natural part of their group dynamic - but, the comfort of each others presence without a word being said, grimy and narcissistic although they may all be, causes some resonance, within the filth they've grown accustomed to.

Dee pauses her texting escapade, "Rex'll be here any minute. You'll have a few practice runs."

Mac rises from his slump and nods. "Okay." He briefly looks at Dennis. "I'll go do some warmups."

"Hummingbirds, try 'em. You've only got a few minutes and they're good for your calves." Dennis lips fold inwards, his signature puppet-look, that meant a multitude of forever culminating emotions were coming to the boil, with a little finger-gun aimed in Mac's direction as he enters the back room to prepare.

"I have to congratulate you, thought the time would never come."

"Thank Mac for reminding me in Guigino's that whenever he takes charge I fall back in love." He then, almost trips over his words, he would cover his mouth with his hands but he neglects the option, and instead chooses to watch Dee. She puckers her lips in confusion.

"You mean that night where I almost died?"

"You quite literally knew there was poison in that shake and drank it anyway, Dee, don't lecture to me about ethics when you _wanted_ to see the other side." Dennis rants, half-heartedly, _maybe_ he felt bad, "That being said, I would have used the epipen on you, but Mac had it."

"It was literally across from you."

"Whatever."

Dee takes a moment, "Are you, actually excited, for tonight though? Aren't you worried Mac will find a guy much more his type?"

"Who's to say I'm not?"

She looks to the distance, and ponders, "Eh. Touche, I suppose."

Dennis looks at little closer at his sister's complexion, so yesterday she walks in with a black eye - that is still dark, and shadowed a faint plum - but is peppered over with some concealer and a few painkillers she threw back in unison with her rapid-fire gulping of her handmade Carribian Paradise (he'd just about noticed), and now there's a notable ton of blotches down her neck, equally, if not camouflaged _worse. _

"Don't look at me like that - I got a thousand this time." She springs her neck back and defensively judges him with her icy, unblinking glare, "We're on the mend."

"Yeah, but you're not."

"Ahem? Since when do you care? Didn't you just say the night I was on the floor dying you were too busy falling in love with Mac to save me?" Her eyebrows arise and her tone is righteous. _Godammit. Perhaps,_ Dennis thinks, horribly so. But he still feels a need to reassure Dee that he's not a complete sociopath, or, at least he had some vague moral upstandings that _tried_ to protect her from harm.

"I was telling him to use the goddamn epipen!"

"But, you'd told him to make his own decisions instead of basing his around yours beforehand, right? So he elected to ignore it."

He goes limp with frustration and admission that - yes, his sister was right - but his lips freeze in place and he taps at the barside, he taps in a rhythm that one could consider morse code, that roughly would translate to: _Someone get me a drink already,_ "...See how well that's worked out? He's as dependent as-ever."

"Oh please, you're _codependent._" She huffs, and stands herself up, "You can blame his obsession over you all you want but the thing about you is - love is kind of unreadable from you. Mac is like a fucking freight-train, you can tell when Mac's head-over-heels for someone, but you're a hard one to crack. And that's why it wouldn't surprise me if you were fine with letting me die - you _know_ \- one love sacrificed for another."

"I don't think you and Mac are comparable, really. One familial, platonic and one - romantic and sexual." He can't stop hearing her calling them_ 'codependent losers, an old married couple'_ from a bare few years back, how differently it hit now, because Christ was she bang on the money before they even_ really_ knew, "...I wasn't fine with it, I was far from fine -_ just don't die doing this stunt business, okay?_ It's all gonna get replaced with robots in a few years time anyways, so don't snap your collarbone trying to prove you're a good actress."

"Because I already am?" There's hope, distinct, in her voice.

"No, you're a fucking awful actress, Dee." It is then crushed, and then, _partially,_ recovered - as a fine dust, "...But that's not to say you can't get anywhere. Technically you're - already there." Just don't _die_ doing it.

She's satisfied enough with that, and announces Rex's and Jordan's arrival through the front door just as it happens - and Dennis, turns to stare, and still taps away his specific thirst for alcohol, to mask his unease at their arrival, "Here they are! _Mac!_ Time to get going!"

He steps out, a massive grin written in cursive 'pon his lips - Dennis almost falls to his knees, _what a parallel,_ bug-eyes protruding from his skull - if his dreams can hint towards the future then he's going to have to stop sleeping so damn late and sleep-in _more; _he adorns the black mesh vest, six-pack oiled up to the nines with some tight shorts to the knees, clinging to his build, not precisely what Dennis had envisioned in his night-time fantasies, but it was so close that it got his salivary glands working overtime and his finger, now drilling a hole into the barside, instead of merely pattering 'gainst the surface. His assigned role of a twink bartender wasn't much of a challenge anymore, nor was it entirely a facade - he'd be able to pull it off with the perfect amount of grace if he could witness Mac side-eyeing him, watching him twirl and flirt with the patrons, if he could witness Mac doing even better on that pole than he was last night, a front row seat to a whole new dynamic they'd been pining for since before they were aware that the possibility of them getting together was ever even an option.

"I'm ready boys!" He calls out, and they both crowd around him and begin to discuss their routine, the songs they can use, their signature moves, etc, etc. Dennis looks on, listens on, eagle-eyed, he trusts Rex enough to know that he wouldn't dare cross his territory for _his _man, and that Jordan fellow was entirely cut out of the picture - he didn't care about him, a nobody, an anonymous worm-sucker that meant nothing to the hypothesized love-triangle that _may_ be driving Dennis crazy barely two seconds in to interaction. He needed to relax, like, instantaneously, so his scatter-brain suggests putting on something far more loose and minimalist to fit the mood - it's also an excuse to run back to the apartment for some alone time before the clock strikes three - and the socialization of gays begins.

"I might - go back and put something simpler on - I don't want sweat ruining this shirt," Dennis shouts to Mac, Mac nods and puts his thumbs up, he didn't quite hear what he said but wanted to be as supportive as he could, anyway.

He runs out, and Charlie and Frank are placed back into the equation.

"Is Dennis like into this, or not?" Charlie pokes his nose in, "...He's acting frantic."

"Oh, he's into it Charlie - he's frantic all the time, you know that, he's fine." Mac responds, Rex and Jordan kind of stand by, on the sidelines as he talks.

"Yeah but," He pauses, and thinks to himself, "I think, I think he's trying to tell you something."

"Really?" Mac couldn't help but crack a smile at that, even Charlie knows - and when Charlie knows, that means it really_ is_ obvious, "What's that?"

"Uh, I dunno man. I don't wanna, assume things." He puts his lips together and produces a little smack, "But - he was holding your hand earlier. Never, seen him do that before."

_Scandalous._ "I know." Mac balls his hand up, and leers elusively to himself, "...Maybe."

"Just guessing man, but - don't get your hopes up. You know how he is."

Yes, yes he _does_ know.

"Thanks Charlie." He gleams, to which Charlie mouths back a little_ 'I know how much you love him, dude.'_ and he swears he's growing more soppy and soft with each passing day - Rex tugs on his arm and suddenly_ he's back in the game, _his reflexes immediately turn him toward him - heart pulsating, and his head is back in the plan.

"Are you two a thing?"

Okay. Maybe not back in the game - the plan just _yet._

"Uh." Were they? I mean, hand-holding is one thing, but it's up to Dennis whether or not he thinks they're legit. _There's a lot more surrounding this than, just, oh, I suddenly love you now, okay? We'll... discuss this after tonight._ Mac was finding himself middling their status, nothing is confirmed, it's not quite official yet, it's not good enough to be declared as - a 'thing.' So he makes up his mind as quickly as he can, and provides a response which Dennis would have probably hated if he were still sat 'pon his stool, listening in. "Me and Dennis? Psh. _No_. No…"

"Oh, okay. It just seemed," Rex stops himself, his tone is forever a child's - sickeningly embedded with innocence, "Good to know."

_Good to know?_ Mac would reply back - would question what exactly he meant by that but Dee's sticking her beak back into his plan, cockfighting her way into the ring, "-So. You gonna show me what you boners got?"

"...Sure!"

Rex takes the lead as Mac protests in stutters and the subdued flicking of hands, and Rex takes quick notice, "...Mac, don't you want to? Aren't you ready?"

"What! No, I'm - _I'm ready!_"

"Oh Rex don't bother with him - it's his fear of failure. Let him overcome it."

"Fear of failure? I'm not afraid of anything!"

"Alright." Dee flicks on the speaker of the boombox strewn upon the side, "Toxic, Britney Spears, show me what you've got._ Prove_ to me you aren't afraid."

As the music starts, they all scramble to their designated places, Mac with much less composure as the others as he takes centre stage and grips the pole, his whole frame discombobulated and unable to find his rhythm, unable to trust his gut and move with the ebb and flow of it all - Charlie sits himself on the stool beside Frank and tries to lure him into looking, into watching, and it works about _halfway_ through. Albeit, he's more-so intrigued by the fact that Dee hasn't spouted one singular insult throughout their practice so far, and as he gazes over to her, before having to witness their trainwreck, he sees her eyes are infatuated and locked onto all three of them (with a little mocking smile to prove she hadn't harbored a whole heart in these past few minutes) but still. Silence and eyes like _that_ were a compliment and a half from Deandra. Frank reflects back to the day of Pride, or more importantly the day that Mac stopped being an indecisive asshole and actually found out who he really was without the need for a mask - his true self revealed, realized by means of dance - admittedly, it sounded like some fairy liberal shit, but projecting back, a whole year back, it was beautiful, it was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. And, despite this dance's context, one of clearly trying to turn people on and make people aggressively horny, Frank felt a tear well up in his eye. A gay little tear. By the end of Britney's sensual ooooo's and mentions of intoxication, a very fitting ditty, if Frank can say so himself, he's up on his feet clapping. Dee turns, blinks, and awkwardly gets up to do the same, nowhere near as enthusiastic, but definitely still just as impressed on the inside. Charlie claps wildly between the two and simply forgets to use his legs - he wasn't undermining their effort, by any means - he was just... lazy.

Mac bows, and almost falls, but saves his precious pecs by performing a clumsy superhero landing, Rex then picks up his mesh vest for him and puts it beside him, and Jordan - well, _who gave a shit about Jordan._

"...Holy crap." Dee takes a breath, "You proved yourself. Slipped up a bit at the start, _and, at the end,_ but - _really_ good job."

"You did it again, man! Why don't you become a real dancer already!" Frank waddles over, and despite the overt layering of sweat covering Mac's whole body, hugs him tight, _for about a second, _and then he realizes how bad he stinks and how wet he is and retracts. "You, you keep doin' it, Mac! Ignorin' how riled up the gays are gonna get when they see you - to me that was on par with your prison dance."

"Prison dance?" Charlie's ears perk up.

"Uh. Yeah - it's a long story, Charlie, just, forget about it. I visited my dad in prison on Pride, basically, and did an interpretive dance that represented my identity as a gay man and Frank cried and-"

"So_ that's_ why you weren't at Pride." Charlie notes, in his especially inquisitive voice, "Isn't that super dangerous? Like, in a prison?"

"No, actually. Everybody was extremely hospitable. Really open, too. I'm pretty sure... everybody was crying."

"Yeah, _everybody _was._"_ Frank confirms.

"What about your dad, dude?" Charlie thinks to himself as he asks, _I couldn't imagine him crying._

Mac goes silent, goes a pale white. _What about him?_

"Uh. He," Mac begins. But does not continue.

The bastard walked out before he even had a chance to see what Mac could do, what he'd put months of effort into, there was no acceptance in his empty soul - old-fashioned, foul and self-serving, Mac should've seen that, it would've spared him the pain of witnessing his own father walk out on him as he bled out, baring his own heart, still beating for all to see.

He had undressed himself of his macho image and subsequently left himself vulnerable to the digs of the past, reminders of childhood embedded beneath dirty nails and forgotten voices lingering between wax dotting the insides of his ears, his place in the family, as the man of the house, that had to keep everything right and sturdy so that nothing could ever go wrong - _and if it did it was all his fault. _He would have to pray it away, just like he did his sins of wanting to kiss a boy in high school. Because he knows it as wrong. He knows it as wrong and he knows that he'd get a cigarette burn on his arm if he cried to mommy about it. Because mommy knows that all sinners go to Hell, and wanting to kiss a boy was the number one sin. Filthy, wretched, disgusting. Dad would have none of that. He should have known, he should have,

"Mac?"

Fucking idiot, _you should have known._ Boys in love with other boys end up dead by eighteen.

"Mac, are you okay?"

Tears, goddamn fucking tears.

Frank hugs him again, and doesn't draw himself away because of the sweat this time; because he knows the source of his pain. Charlie apologizes about fifty times a minute despite not connecting up what exactly he'd said that caused Mac to cry, and Dee can't comfort, she'd never been good at it, but she looks on with sympathy, as if she's sharing his agony.

"He… It - It doesn't matter, Charlie."

Rex comes joins in with the hug, and even Jordan - _who was he again?_ \- latches on and joins in with his tears. Dee finds herself as the only one outside of the embrace and abashedly sticks onto the outside, trying to provide as much warmth as she can.

"This is fucking stupid - I'm - I'm fine." Mac brushes them off, "Thank you, though." He puts the mesh back on and they're all left to swim in their thoughts for a good five minutes.

The clock was just about to hit one, two hours until shit hits the fan and cocks go hard and vaginas - do whatever they do - and Paddy's becomes a breeding-ground for everything remotely queer. Mac sighs to himself and then speaks aloud his concerns, "What if Dee's Instagram followers aren't loyal at all, we - should have put flyers up, really."

"Already ahead of you!" Charlie fishes out a flyer from his pocket that was every type of clashing color you could possibly overlay onto a sheet of paper, "This is the only spare but I put them all around Philly! There's never anything that I don't think of, man."

Mac nods, _it'll do, it'll definitely do._ "Wow. Okay."

"Good job right?"

Mac squints at the paper and notices about five spelling errors, but appreciates the gesture, "Yeah, Charlie. Great job, dude."

"Okay, well. I'm offended that you'd suggest my Insta followers are insignificant in this, but, we've got three hours. You guys, gonna practice some more?"

"Who's to say they're not bots, Dee?"

"_Are we going to practice some more?_" She repeats.

"...Yes. We'll curate some songs, put a set together." Rex and Jordan nod.

"Something tells me you're not really gonna need to practice all that much, I mean - you could just wing it." Frank suggests, and Mac takes his idea on board but he decides against it.

"Nah. We've got to keep it concise." He turns toward Rex and Jordan and they all instantly crowd around the boombox and scoop it up, running through the exclusively 80s and early 2000's mix - _and that's how one would know it was Dennis's._

"I respect that." Frank turns to Charlie and Dee and claps his hands, afterward diving for the box full of flags and trinkets and decorations sprinkled a glittery rainbow, "Time to get goin'! Me and Charlie'll decorate the innards, in here - and you, Dee, can make up a sign to put up outside that says 'Paddy's Gay Night' or somethin' similar." Frank scoots a little bit closer to his daughter, "Just, fyi - the only reason I'm not lettin' Charlie do the sign outside is cause he did an awful job at the flyers. Mac was being too kind."

"What was that, Frank?" Charlie calls back, he's already got a hot-glue gun and is using it on the flags to pin 'em up to the wall. Jesus.

"Nothin' Charlie!"

"Do I need to remind you that he's illiterate, Frank?" Dee says, to which Frank lets out a little _'oh, I know, I know.' _

Frankie Goes To Hollywood thus consumes the bar's silence - and everyone is set on tonight,

That is,

* * *

Apart from Dennis.

He rummages through the apartment for his RPG, he wants to dress up fancy soon, it was almost two now - he doesn't actually want to show up all minimalist to what could be the sluttiest night of his life - but he's also just craving what he abandoned, when he thinks about it, which he doesn't want to, but he does, he does; there was a space in time where between Valentine's Day and Mac's scheme to shoo Mandy away with his 'emotionally-involved lovers' plot that Dennis should have jumped on his feelings. The tender puckering of lips, whole ghostly soul shivering as he handled the only gift he'd gotten on the fourteenth that wasn't cheap chocolate or girls he'd previously asked out - laughing at him as he sulked alone, tears brimming eyes that hadn't felt emotions, _not so clear cut,_ in years. There would have been so much less mess leading up to their love, it would have made their relationship so much less convoluted and tainted with forgotten wives who deserved better and the children of said wives who he couldn't look after but spent a year trying, fruitlessly, to. Whenever he was asked about North Dakota, he would turn down discussing it, reflect it aggressively, through teeth chattering with rage, body possessed by someone entirely not himself.

He's looking through all the boxes he's got, through all the magazines of lewd quality, still sticky from days of serious desperation and some even veering back to puberty, trinkets of Philly and high school photos and papers upon papers of bills and medical documents and yadda yadda - and he can't find the damn Rocket Launcher. Nothing notable hiding away in there. Nothing even hinting at it, no papers for the RPG, no straw strewn 'round from the crate, no chippings of paint that could hint toward a multitude of things but he's trying to grasp for some hope that he can find it in his bedroom. Surely, surely Mac wouldn't of…

He would.

Time to step into the forbidden room of snot green and shit brown - it was unbelievable the amount of times Dennis had told him to redecorate, the color-coding in his room was abhorrent, it reminded him of a fucking swamp or a toilet bowl after a particularly bad Dave & Buster's had left both ends exuding fluids. He opens the door and steps in, and it smells pleasantly of winter breeze airspray - that's a good start - but then he smells the sweetness of spilled cans of energy drink and some dots of junk food, greasy pizza and burger remnants, mostly. The most positive thing Dennis could take away from this was: at least he _tried_ to cover the smells. His mattress was dirty but he wasn't keen on inspecting that - he tugged at a couple drawers but most were locked, or jammed, more realistically - knowing Mac. A piece of paper was hung out of the side of one of the drawers (again, jammed) but it was one of their Vinegar and Honey Real Estate cards. Dennis smiled, lowly at that. Another piece of paper fell out in unison with Dennis removing the Vic & Vinegar card, and he turned it around so he could read it - scribbled in a rushed chicken-scratch, supposed to be sent to the local Church way back in '09, it was… A letter of confession.

He begins to read it: _This is a letter of confession for the Priest that's supposed to absolve my sins or whatever. I don't want to say this to you aloud, so let me give this to you and please, may you read it and see through my heinous deeds. _Dennis thinks to himself - he definitely used a dictionary to write this one - considering what he wrote Chase Utly in that same year. _I've been having some thoughts about myself, about my identity and who I want to love. I've been struggling a lot and I just need some words of advice as to what I should do. A male friend of mine and I have been having sex with these girls and watching them back on recording and I can't help but worry if it's against the Lord. Don't worry, I don't love him, Dennis is a good guy and all but,_

Scribbled out beneath was, _shit, I wrote Dennis, this was meant to be anonymous I'm not meant to_ and then it degrades into scribbles that attempt to cover up the previous.

Dennis scrunches it up and half-laughs to himself, only half because he kind of pities it, with how much longer this inner ordeal has gone on inside Mac, it was - frustratingly sad. "Christ." He mutters to himself, and splays himself onto the floor to look further into drawers, one of them was a drawer he did not wish he opened (one can easily guess what that might be) but as his leg backs out, and goes 'neath his bed, he hears a distinct click. Now, under Mac's bed was the typical gay porn mags, nobody was disputing that, nobody was _not_ expecting that, but what Dennis wasn't expecting was for him to hoard the goddamn RPG under his bed.

He stuck his hands underneath and pulled the sucker out - in all it's dusty, unloaded glory, it felt just as it felt the first day it was given to him, except unpolished and gross, but all the same, if not even more homey. He was tempted to carry it to Paddy's, a show of devotion, a show of deteriorating mental state, a mix of both? But then he realized that walking all the way there with a lethal, illegally, dark-web bought Rocket Launcher through the streets of Philly was basically asking to be detained. He'd narrowly avoided it before, but he certainly wouldn't avoid it with that in his hands.

And so, he reminisces, briefly - upon the blemishes of past years, and it does not bring just happiness, a confusing mix of many emotions, if he were to be honest, but he feels his Godhole swell with some warmth, as if it will be filled - it isn't filled just yet, but staying on this path, it will.

What to wear? Mac's wearing his mesh vest - and Dennis hardly has to really consider the prospect. Should he?

Yes.

And he scurries back to his room, leaving the RPG on the floor, as well as all the letters visible - he digs through the multitude of clothes he'd gathered through the years, many he'd never worn once, mainly because all he knew how to wear was blue t-shirts and bland polos and anything that would normalize his beauty but sustain his manliness. But he knew enough now, that was bullshit. He pulled out stockings, he's forty - mind you - and very conscious of his weight, allergic to everything, or he convinced himself he was, and he looks on and can't decide whether or not he really wants to go all out. He's going to get blackout drunk, he's going to regret everything in the morning whether or not he wears something 'feminine' - fuck it. Fuck stupid goddamn loose t-shirts, if he's going to dress gay,_ whatever that meant,_ he would dress it well and catch everyone's eye. Whether or not they wanted to catch a glimpse of him or not.

He doesn't hesitate, and layers on a cheesy heart t-shirt that was now - far too big for his frame, on top of his shorts, atop stockings and black Stilettos, nowhere near the quality that Cricket had, actually, but Dennis wouldn't have trusted anything Cricket had offered anyways. Probably had athletes foot stuck in the soles. He opens up his make-up bag and sighs. So the ritual of covering up begins again, a kind of - middling self-care self-harm, he didn't need it, but he convinced himself he did enough to reapply everything as often as he was able, every second away from his concealer was every second toward a disaster and his true form being uncovered, like the curtains being opened to a play that had garnered worldwide hype, but was actually just a preschool Christmas nativity with zero funding. People, _Mac_ would cheer him on, without his mask of faux skin, but he knew it was out of pity - one person in the crowd claps, but the show itself is so vapid and downright awful that somebody feels bad enough to show support among the silence. That's all it was.

So he lathers on black matte lipstick, and dabs on some eyeshadow, curls his hair up nice and fresh and sits back on his bed and merely thinks. He plucks away at stray eyebrow strands, he plucks away at his eyebrows in general, most of the time they were hardly there - he picks at the underneath of his nails, and bites, and then he decides to polish up his shoes, and then decides to use some blusher and - he thinks he's ready. He spent some time entirely disconnected from himself, lost in thought, that it was almost half-past three, and time had overrun, but all he could think was: what kind of gay bar with three stripping dudes opens at three in the afternoon? So he sits for another five out of spitefulness, out of believing his own opinions more than the others, before he slings on the signature Duster and paces back and forth. It'd been a helluva long time since he wore these. He can't even remember the context - if there was any, if there needed to be any - but, practice makes perfect, and he didn't feel like breaking his ankles any time soon.

Ten to four.

Okay, he feels bad enough now,_ no he doesn't -_ but he just feels obliged by the ticking of the clock to get a move on, so he heads out, and hears two little pings, from his phone as he clicks the door shut, he can't lock it but providing the noise at least puts across the facade that their apartment is safe. He pulls out his phone and reads the messages, he doesn't even need to check who they're from,_ he knows._

_don't worry abt being late dude! charlie fucked up the decorating a little bit but dee's sign is done! people are actually here? insaneeeeeee_

_i think mindy (that chick that almost replaced you last year) is coming onto dee man it's crazy, wouldnt have guessed she was gay _😳 _also artemis is here, crickets here_

He begins to type his response: Is anyone there that we don't already know? xx

It takes a few minutes but he gets back to Dennis with another double message as soon as he exits the building: _yeah there's like forty-odd at the moment and we're trying to bribe them into calling their other friends to show up _✊

_also are we doing that xx thing now man? sick xx love you xx_

Dennis rolls his eyes. Another message just as he puts his phone back into his pocket: _dude i found this emoji dude look at how cute it is:_ _ thats me _😍 _and_ 😡 _thats you xx_

He's gonna have to put up with that as a contact. He goes into his settings, silences his phone and turns off the vibrator, by the time he gets there he'll be left with at least seven unread, but that's okay. It's self-care. Also he doesn't want to keep stopping to be mildly amused by Mac's sense of humor when he would much rather witness it in-person.

* * *

O, why a formidable crowd has amassed! Quite a lot more than what Dennis would ever have expected, loads of people - nearing sixty now, maybe seventy if he were feeling generous - were outside socializing and it seemed that Charlie had crafted together a smaller handmade bar outside from which he could serve cocktails of literally anything he grabbed, luckily enough for him, Frank would guide his hand and give him advice, you know, the usual stuff, not to mix vodka with straight gasoline or whiskey with dish-water. Dennis's heels meet the ground and unfortunately, Dee is the first to be allured to the sound of his fashion model-esque saunter, the clicks demanding all eyes, hers especially piercing through the mass, be settled on him.

"Holy shit, _Dennis_ \- someone's... got their fashion sense back."

"I never lost it, just suppressed it." He could feel the slowly rising attention settle on his skin and all of their eyes felt appropriately snug. Maybe he didn't dress up much because it fed his ego too much, but he didn't care, he loved it far too much to _care,_ "Where's Mac?"

"Getting right to the meat, are we?"

"What else?"

"You know, you're going to kill him wearing that Duster, right?" Dennis's eyebrows raise with an accompanying bitchy grin, he's glad she took notice. "He's inside... We're just trying to keep everybody out until at least sundown. Three o'clock was a dumbass time to choose for a strip show and karaoke night." She side-eyes him as he walks by, he nods in agreement, before he blinks, and promptly halts himself, almost toppling in his frail midnight heels.

"-Karaoke night?"

"Yeah." She responds, rather plainly before she realizes what kind of ideas are popping through Dennis's head - she twists her neck towards him and can already think of a million different lectures as to why he shouldn't open that sorry-singing-gullet of his, "Oh God, don't do a cheesy cover of a song for Mac. Don't do it."

"I'm gonna do a cheesy cover of a song for Mac. I'm gonna do it." _Specifically when I'm drunker than I've ever been before, and only because you told me not to,_ Dennis smirks to himself, before whipping himself inward, through the door, _love you sis._ "It's gonna be like that time in Gugino's except even _worse_ and out-of-tune and grossly romantic."

She lets out an aggravated little grunt slash cry but is quickly cut off as the door stops her anger from seeping in and disrupting the sacred practices of Mac and, the other two that Dennis elected to ignore, and push from mind's eye. Charli XCX blasts out of the boombox so loud that the ground is vibrating and Dennis wouldn't have been surprised if that was steam spilling out of the speakers, and he's thus greeted with the precise view of three asses wiggling almost as well as Charlie does, before they all began leaping over each other in time with the beats, as if it were some kind of twenty-first-century techno-pop ballerina mishmash. Oh, oh no. This night was going to be a fucking trip and a half. Dennis walks himself beside Mac's stage, and sees that he's so concentrated on his feet and his hands and the form of his torso that he doesn't realize Dennis had even scampered through. He knows how to fix that.

One finger to the power button and - silence. All three of them drop like birds to a stone.

Mac hasn't looked up yet, but his mouth is already running a mile, "Dee for fucks sake! You fucking! We t- told you we were going through one, final run of the set and then we, we would be-" Rex taps him, as a means to get his attention and say, _that's not Dee._

Dennis smiles as Mac fails to compute.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens, and he can't really think of what to say. All of the blood rushes to his face. The make-up, the stilettos, fishnet stockings to match his mesh vest, the Duster. "-De… Dennis, I… I uh, I… I… Holy, shit, you..."

"What does a man have to lose in stilettos, Mac?" _Nothing but their balance._

Mac steadies himself, despite being in perfectly flat and new sneakers, and chuckles a bit to himself, he's sweaty and thrown off by Dennis's arrival but fuck if he isn't into it, into this new Dennis, that isn't exactly _new_ just, a bit more bold. Part of him knew it was for show, to get the guys gaping around the bar, but another part of him knew it was just something he wanted to try out for fun, and who was Mac to knock him for that - it looked good, it looked almost perfect. The almost would come into play later. "I- I don't know. I… I don't know." He's out of breath and staring and Dennis feels a little rush, he puts his hand out and offers to help Mac from the floor, to which he gratefully complies.

"You ready?" Dennis asks, and as Mac is raised, he completely misreads Dennis's question and- he narrowly avoids a kiss, "What do you think I am? An animal? Were you, in fact,_ raised in a barn?_ _Were you, Mac?_ If you kiss me you'll smudge my lipstick, _don't _\- I meant," He sighs, he's holding himself back more than he ought, "I meant are you ready to dance?"

"Oh." The redness represents only his embarrassment now, "Not-Not really."

"Bullshit." Dennis puts his hands upon Mac's back and rubs at his shoulder blades, to help soothe his nerves, "You'll do fantastic. And if you don't Rex and - the other guy'll show you up. And then, that'll be highly humiliating, and I'll get with them instead."

"You better not fucking get with them or I'll-"

"I'm joking."

"Yeah, yeah I," He tugs at his collar, "knew that."

Dee cracks open the door and screeches, "_OKAY! YOU GOT LITERALLY ABOUT FIVE MINUTES! _\- Charlie's doing this whole speech thing for the community and it's so misguided he just started talking about how he's proud lesbians are pronounced sword-fighters and advocates for flannel shirts and trans people are advocates specifically for floral print and all gay guys love Lady Gaga, I?" She breathes through her nostrils and veins barely contain themselves within her forehead, "He just - he's trying his best but his best is not good enough."

"Okay, Dee, alright." Mac smiles at her, and his face morphs into that of a dog's after it's been found out for shitting on the carpet as soon as the door closes, "...God, okay, okay - I'm doing this, _I'm actually doing this_ \- are you with me though, are you? Lady Gaga's not bad? Like not the best but she's-"

Dennis cups his face, "Focus, Mac. Ro-mah-ro-mah-mah-"

Mac's brows furrow, "-Ga-ga-oo-la-la."

Both of them, then, in unison, "_Want your bad romance._"

"I don't even like her that much dude, has she done much recently?"

"I don't know actually. I don't think so."

Rex claps his hands together and draws Mac's attention away from Dennis - he glares on as a secondary character now, and he is already furious with the sudden concentration-shift, "Let's get into place, c'mon Mac, let's go."

_Don't tell Mac what to do you snivelling piece of expired meat-_ "Hey! Welcome to Paddy's!" _That was far less than five minutes,_ people were already storming their way in, his pearly whites widen and he's ready to serve - a multitude of men surround him, and he almost instantly feels overwhelmed and their eyes, some of them have the same qualities as Mac's, kind, cooperative, a little on the dumb side, but others stare on as if Dennis is theirs to hang up on their mantelpiece. "...What, can I get you guys?"

"Anything that you recommend, handsome." A blond from the left jabs, his face wasn't too symmetrical but his hair was perfectly kept, and eyes were a pleasant, forest green that had the ability to soothe - and that was enough to get Dennis to wade into the depths.

"Well, I'll get you the most expensive cocktail we've got, how 'bout that?" Don't feed his ego, don't, it's rearing and starving so don't make it _worse._

"Only if we share." And he winks. He _winks._

Okay, okay. He looks over the guy's shoulder and sees Mac basically having a mini fit in the corner. He grits his teeth, but remains in his facade, "...I don't see why not." He's handed the cash and he'd managed to get a whole fifty bucks off of the sucker.

He signals for Dee to come over and make the drinks, and she gets going behind the counter and Dennis tries not to flirt too much with the other patrons, which is hard considering - this was a gay bar and as far as they were concerned he did not have a disernable ring on any avalible finger, plus he was wearing quite revealing clothing, nothing too bad - but nothing to leave much of the imagination wandering. Dee hands him the drink and gets to work on a few beers and liquors, the blond looks at Dennis and shifts it towards him.

"Take the first sip,"

"Alright…" He has a gulp, and it's -_ great,_ a bit of fruity tang and it's balanced out with a soothing minty, gin aftertaste, "Mhm. Pretty good, very good, actually."_ Surprisingly, _considering they've never, ever, sold one of those before, and Dee had never even attempted to make one.

"Does it taste as good as this?"

The guy was already drunk before, Dennis knew that, he could smell it off of him, but five seconds into first impressions and he's already going in for the tongue, all sense of logic _gone_ \- he could hardly react, the guys fingers curl around Dennis's jawbone and twirl at his hair, before lodging themselves into his neck, stunting him so still that he can hardly get away from his lips, he dives inward and kisses deep, with an inherent aggression, and Dennis's eyes blow wide as he grunts into his throat and lodges his tongue past his teeth - _no._ Dennis shoves the guy away, ripping his hands from his face, _no,_ he blinks and his nostrils flare and his fucking lipstick is ruined and tainted by another man's filthy goddamn lips and it's smeared it makes him look likes he's been chewing at raw fucking charcoal.

"Okay then." He picks up the drink and throws it into Dennis's face. Dee turns, slowly, _very slowly,_ and can barely contain her laughter, "Enjoy your fifty, asshole. You're old and gross as hell anyways."

"_Oh so I'm an asshole just because I don't want your crusty lips all over my perfect ones!_" Old and gross, huh? He puts his hand upon his forehead and feels as if he's gonna cry, he's not old and gross, he's young and cool and hip and, oh Christ.

"Dennis? You wanna, reapply your make-up? I have - I have, I-" She starts laughing, loud. Dennis looks as if he's about to kill a man. "I… I have some black lipstick here for you."

He snatches it from her and re-applies it furiously, "The next man to try and kiss me will die underneath the strength my manicured nails. Do you hear me? I've run out of red nail-polish recently and I'm not afraid to kill a man to get some." He hands her it back - and he shrinks in stature as he smiles comfortingly at some hunky brunette, "_And what can I get for you, sir?_"

Mac is not feeling too great.

He watches Dennis and he's just sweating, he's not even moving but he's producing buckets - that guy was kind of an ass, but Mac didn't think much of it, gay bars can be too flirty sometimes, they can be quick to guess what you want and they can be _extremely_ wrong. Also that guy was just, wasted, and Dennis was an idiot. He wrings out his mesh shirt for the third time, and he swears that this amount of sweat-loss in an hour isn't normal nor should it be humanly possible. In ten he'll be up, and he'll be dancing to some eighties pop that he hates and can't remember the name of but chose because of Dennis -_ that's love,_ he supposes. He just wants this night to go faster - looking out over the multitude of brightly-colored heads wearing hats and spraying bright hair-dye into their hair, some rainbow, some varying shades of pink, some pink n' blue, some blue n' purple, some were just_ random_ \- they were all generally pretty happy, the music accompanying wasn't too loud but it was loud enough and most of what you could hear was chattering and laughter. Dee was handing out drinks, spilling them, Dennis was struggling not to have another outburst while he dabs at the black smudged on his cheeks, Charlie was dancing with a mop at the back and, strangely getting more attention from guys than Mac would have previously thought, and Frank was sat alone like the old hermit he is.

"Do some stretches, Mac, c'mon!"

Rex being supportive - as per usual, did not bring out much hope - this certainly meant less than 'the prison dance' as Frank had so eloquently put it, but he was shaking in his boots, he thinks at first, it's because of Dennis, but no, it can't be, and then he thinks back to Charlie - to Dee - to Frank - it _is,_ it's all because of Dennis, he thought the amalgamation of people would ease his nerves, help blur construction of thine face, his reactions, no longer kept hidden within the confines of the mind, it'd distort them and merge into the others and keep his thoughts anonymous, right? Well, he was way off the mark. It only shone a fucking spotlight onto him behind the bar, where his stupid face was almost always visible.

"Hey, Mac, don't freeze up now, man." Rex lauds him up, tries to help him deal with whatever issues he's facing, because _he doesn't know;_ as far as Rex is concerned, Mac has a severe case of stage fright, "They're all here to have fun, if you fail you fail, you know? It's only an hour."

Only an hour. That's a funny statement, "Yeah." _That's a long time,_ even for a fitness expert such as oneself, it's_ too_ long.

All of a sudden, Artemis is barging through the mass and clearly trying to get herself toward Mac, she's saying something but, despite having quite the fog-horn of a voice, Charlie inexplicably decides to turn the music up right at the exact moment she tries to talk. He didn't even notice she had even, shown up, but, in an all-sequin cocktail dress and black knee-high boots, lipstick soaking her mouth a deep purple - she was hard to ignore, her hair was bunched up like a birds nest, but she somehow managed to pull it off with the perfect amount of class and chaos. Cleanliness and tattiness. She looked like a whore but, _tasteful_.

"Mac!" She grabs at his ankle and dramatically splays herself onto the stage, "Dee's too busy making drinks to tell you so, just to notify you, you can get going."

"No... announcement?"

"Well, honey, I don't think Dee thought you wanted an announcement - you look like you're about to shit yourself. Any more attention and you might."

He bites at the insides of his cheeks, "...Okay, thank you."

"It's no problem, well done on the whole gay thing by the way, I am too, knee deep in lesbian gash. Or bisexual. Doesn't really matter, the main point is I might bang Dee."

"Dee?" He immediately recoils, and sticks his tongue out as if he was a little boy who'd caught cooties from interaction with the girls, "Why, why_ Dee?_" He would rather stick his dick in a cactus than witness her naked.

"Why_ not_ Dee? - I know your personal connections may cloud your judgement, but she really isn't all that ugly. Also have you heard about that job she's gotten? A stunt-woman is pretty sexy, Mac, _pretty sexy." _She pauses, and he's still not convinced but she's not precisely keen on convincing him anyway, she just likes to brag, whether said bragging is justified or not, "Plus she's, insane and even worse when she's plastered so - I got to get back to feeding her Absinthe before Mindy tries to scoop her up."

"Mindy's after her too?" _Fuck. _Mac leers over at Dee and sees her laughing away whilst Mindy holds her hand and pours out straight Vodka.

"Yeah. We could probably split the deal though, she seems like someone who'd be fine with a threesome. Depends on how crazy we're feeling." She gives Dee a little wave and she's locked on target, "But - that's besides the point. Get up and do your thing, man. You'll be fine. The guys surrounding Dennis aren't as hot nor as well-adjusted to Dennis's outbursts and mood swings as you. You've basically got no competition whatsoever."

He furrows his brows, "You - you know about me and Dennis?"

"Uh?_ Yes?_ Anybody who doesn't know - or doesn't realize is an idiot… I've known since like, 08, man, I thought you guys bought a house together and left to become a couple or something." _Mac doesn't recall that._ "You know, suburbs."

"Oh - that."

Where he killed their dog and mixed it in with Mac and Cheese to provide some variety in terms of cuisine, yeah. In retrospect, it wasn't_ that_ bad a week. "...Yeah. No. No - we barely survived a week there. We wanted to kill each other."

"As all couples do."

"Heh."

"How times have changed. You seem to be a lot more stable, I mean, I remember Dee told me last year that Dennis was acting up around you, all uncomfortable and shit, so, it's good to see you acting much more cooperative." _Probably because of the lifesize sex doll and the North Dakota trip with a kid and a wife that he refuses to elaborate on. _That's probably why he acted up. Understandably. "...Have you guys like - even really, discussed it though or. Or, is it just kind of a mutual - I love you, we're together now, let's go sleep in the same bed and keep verbally abusing each other, but with love mixed in, this time."

"We haven't - we, we need to." He thinks, for Dennis's sake, for both their sakes, pretending like there hadn't been a fourteen year struggle would be like waking up from a fourteen year coma and the doctors not notifying you of who you were before nor how you got into the coma itself. "We haven't even done anything yet. _Which I'm fine with_ but."

Artemis puts her hand upon his shoulder and smiles, "Some would label you impatient, Mr. Macdonald, but I'd say waiting fourteen years to ride your best friend's ass is the most patient you can get." She pats him, before beginning to stumble off back toward the bar, "You're basically celibate!" Except he's following the religion of_ Dennis,_ rather than the Holy Lord's scripture.

She flings her hand up into the air by the barside and Dee stares and so does Mindy and they all nod at the same time, nobody else, really, is looking - and he knows that he needs to get up on that pole now. Artemis mouths a_ 'I KNOW YOU CAN DO IT!' _and winks, but he still trips up as he stands, and Rex gives him a helping hand, "It's okay - most of the people in here seem pretty receptive and nice. You can do it."

_You can do it._

He turns to see Dennis glaring - oh no, _oh, _\- wait, he looks a little longer, he's smiling, he's nodding, he's… supporting? Okay, okay. Maybe, maybe.

Charlie scampers over and changes the mix, putting it on some 80s filler tune that Dennis would die for but made Mac gag with how nauseatingly poppy it is, actually, _no,_ this one's, pretty good - Depeche Mode, Dennis had talked about that group before (and he's dancing to it by the bar, _so it must be good_) the crowd doesn't really take too much notice, good,_ good,_ but he approaches Rex and stutters, "Do you, uh, think you could start? I'll take lead when You're The Inspiration comes on." Rex nods, and Mac heads to the back and joins up with Jordan as Rex clings onto the pole and begins to move. Heads turn, a few begin to watch, a few whistle, a few try to climb the stage and most are swaying with the music as they talk; Dennis is singing to himself as he relays orders to Dee, occasionally catching a glimpse of Mac, he's nowhere near as good as he'd be with less pressure on his shoulders, but the effort is all that counts, and the effort is making his knees weak.

The day is drawing to a close and - nothing terrible has come of it, blessed be the night, the bad luck that tends to stalk the gang has halted itself firmly outside the pub doors now. Mindy and Dee and Artemis are all gleefully reciting lyrics with necks punctured with lipstick and colored kisses as Mac focuses in on the crowd and the crowd reciprocates his moves, attempts to imitate, attempts to snatch at his thighs and manipulate a phone number from his lips, Charlie is busting his own entirely separate moves with cracking joints and loose ankles, Frank sways and sings and drinks to forget his debt - with the flags repeatedly falling upon his old, balding head, and Dennis watches with squinting eyes, and imagines what it would be like without all of this multicolor craze, how it would have been a year back, or even a few years before, or ten, or even before that. How much they would have hated each other but fell into the hole and never got themselves back out, how glorious it would have been. And how sad, it all seemed now. Like the tree branch of love, two tragedy-stricken babes cling to it by the neck, withered by the whip of the wind, hands all hard and rigor-mortis'd and cupping each other's; as even in death they remain together.

It makes him weep - the thought of youth all gone and all wasted to that of sex tapes and nameless sexual conquests of varying degrees of importance, _all of whom he'd all forgotten now,_ but it was what he chased and what he craved, so he did it. And it went up in flames and was proved fruitless, deemed useless and retained no value whatsoever. Now he's chasing something that has meaning, but it's so much effort that it tugs at his heart and makes him feel weak, unnecessarily hopeless, even though there is much to be found before him. It binds him down and kicks at his shins and curbs his teeth, every realization hurt, even in a place like this, even where he is right now, just watching Mac give it all he can and all the support that radiates from all the people, he can't help but feel himself slipping. The inconsistencies of love is what kept him out before; either you looked good, or you didn't, either you fucked good or you were shit, but loving was a whole different ballpark.

There was disappointment to be felt even in the best of moments.

Loving was personal, and Dennis was never one for being - personal, for sharing emotions, it wasn't a fucking therapy session they were hosting but there were nights back at the apartment where they'd lay back on the couch and grab a blanket and watch some macho gun-touting movie with Arnold starring and Mac would ramble on about something but they'd already seen the film a million times so the conversation would turn, and keep turning and they'd keep looking towards each other as if they were already together. As if this dumb conversation was worth savoring - as it turned to discussing what was and what could be. They'd stop, they'd think about holding each other under the warmth of the cushions and the wispy fabrics and their hands would grasp for each others hands but they'd never get to the point where they'd hold on for dear life, it would only be momentary, the bliss would last a split-second - they'd look at each other and contemplate going further. Never would,

still haven't.

The previous discussion feels like a distant memory, it's as if Dennis never even said it. _We'll discuss it later. _Will they? After everything, after sauntering in Stilettos will this just be a fad, one of their schemes to earn money and will all be forgotten? When they get home they'll separate themselves but like purgatory they'll still remain attached, on a loop day-by-day, perhaps the others will change, they won't, they'll lie in bed and think, but thinking too much clogs doing, too much of it can cause a man to break. Cause a man to leave and never return, but he'll always return, they'll always stay together. And he wants but he doesn't, he loves him but he hates him, he wants protection but he wants control and the scale is forever tilting itself back and forth - he stares into his shot glass as if it's bottomless.

And he stares up, as Chicago plays.

_You're the Inspiration._

"Fuck." He slurs, during his little thoughtscapade, how much did he down,_ too much_ \- he can barely stand, and time span itself past eight. Does everything have to be a throwback to when they could have been happier, even when it revolved around catching a fucking rat through the means of musical seduction? The irony there, Ronnie the Rat, oh how sick, how cruel can time be? This song is like nails on a goddamn chalkboard.

He blinks through his haze, inertia plaguing bones.

"This is for you man." _I don't want it. I don't, want it. _He would have loved it an hour ago but now it's salt to a wound.

And like that, as soon as Mac begins to dance, Rex kisses him.

Down his throat, all sloppy and wet and full-on, and Mac can feel Dennis, this wasn't some idiot inebriate, this is _Rex, _he doesn't want it as much as Dennis doesn't want to see it.

And Dennis _knows _he's not seeing things because he hears Dee, through all the noise, sees her, out of his peripheral vision, gasp, and immediately try to hold him back. She knows he's actually going through the motions, who wouldn't be? But Dennis Reynolds especially, spite and ungodly rage hacked up to resemble a man, onto a frail skeleton, all gangly and pathetic, would suddenly try to take charge even if it caused him to kill himself in the process. As long as he died beautifully he didn't care, and there was enough glitter in the air to make his wounds look pretty, to make his blood something artists would desire to replicate - so he throws a bottle at Rex and Dee instantly puts him into a choke hold to calm his anger - or to choke him blue, or sedate him somewhat, at least. The glass hits the pole and shatters as Rex loses his balance, Charlie fiddles with the music to try and mute it and the crowd scuttles and yells and runs out of the front door, some people have glass in their eyes, some people are having mental breakdowns drunk over their boyfriends, some people were screaming and holding back said drunks having a mental breakdown over their boyfriends - trying miserably to calm them (or _kill _them.)

"This night was going _great_ you fucking selfish asshole - what the fuck!"

"I-_Ack_-he, he fucking-k-k-ki-kiss-"

"-Kissed Mac? Yes! _This is a gay bar - what did you expect? _Nobody to try and make moves on him? _Look at him!_" She squeezes his neck tighter as a means to shut him up. "Oh, Christ Dennis, the medical bills - think of the medical bills, _we'll get sued._"

Rex has glass up through his torso and into his cheek, and as he slowly lets go and drops, so does the pole. Mac stares at Charlie, Charlie stares back. Rex crashes to the ground, and the pole hits him just a second after. They could all swear they hear a crack. Frank runs off, crying into the back-room.

Dee blinks, Rex is basically motionless. _No, no, no._ She lets go of Dennis and he gasps for air, "_He's all yours Mac!_ C'mon Artemis-Mindy go-go get out - get_ OUT_-"

All that goes through Mac's head is that he needs to pick Dennis up and run, so he does,_ they can deal with this in the morning _\- Dee has a thousand bucks on her - it's fine, he looks back to see Jordan tending on Rex's wounds and calling an ambulance. He hauls Dennis up and holds him as if he's a poor imitation of Christ after his crucifiction, he's mumbling and sick and red with rage and he's like a rabid cat with his claws unsheathed, scratching wildly into Mac's mesh, leaving marks upon his back. This was a bad idea but at least their register was chock full of cash, at least they'd be able to cover it, at least it was over. Nothing ever started good with them and ended good, so Mac wasn't shocked as much as he was annoyed by Dennis's impulsivity. Albeit, give or take a year before - and if a man did that to Dennis? Mac couldn't promise that he wouldn't have had the same reaction.

"Did I kill him?"

"No." Mac sighs, _at least he doesn't think so,_ "Did you want to?"

"D-depends if you're asking me in the moment - or out of it."

"Out of it."

"...No." Dennis breaths in, "I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't."

There was a shared silence that was then overcome with blasting ambulance sirens - Dennis mumbles into Mac's chest, "...Are you carrying me, dude?"

"...Yeah."

"_Niiiiiiiiii_-ce."

* * *

Mac kicks open their apartment door and Dennis is basically coddling Mac at this point - it's as if what just happened never happened except it's literally all Mac can think about, so he drops Dennis to the floor - on the carpet, not the hardwood surface, _he's not a monster_ \- and prepares some tea. Dennis whines out and Mac simply bats back, "That's what Rex went through but like - a hundred times_ worse,_ dude."

"Oh come on-_you didn't want his kiss._"

"You're right." He taps his spoon on the edge of his cup, "I didn't. But you didn't have to go apeshit."

"I wasn't, I wasn't thinking."

"We never do."

The clock ticks on the inside of his skull and it's only nine - is this what age does to you, makes you allergic to late hours and makes alcohol a deadly poison to your system? - he grapples the tea Mac hands him with shaky fingers, and Mac sits on the couch above where he lay. He blinks a few times, sleep lining his eyes and gooing up his sight, his lips are stuck together by way of spit and that reapplication that was cheaper stuff and came out in unsatisfying chunks, Dee always had to nab the cheap shit.

"You wanted to discuss, love? Or something?"

Eloquent. "...Did I?"

"You did."

Dennis tries to recall what it was that ached him so. He sits himself up and sips at the tea, the steam only makes his makeup run more, and he wants to reapply it like one would crave to scratch a particularly bad itch, but he sits, and elaborates on what he can't remember through an alcoholic haze, "I had a dream about you, or something, I think. I don't know. It was good - but it wasn't real." _I doubt you can replicate it._ "...I haven't fucked a guy before Mac, and I, I haven't had sex with a woman since like, Mandy." He breaks his admissions with pitiful chuckles, "-God, I don't know what's wrong with me."

Mac swallows back his questions about the dream, his eyes grow wide, that puppy-dog kind of wide that Dennis imagines he'd look like when he goes down on his, "...Nothing. Nothing is wrong - you're just, you're trying to pace yourself. And that's like, perfectly healthy."

"Pace myself? Mac, pacing myself isn't_ not _fucking," Dennis drinks back the whole of the tea and loudly cracks the porcelain down onto the tableside, "It's annoying how I can only think about you. Like, it gets in the way of basically any other thought about any other woman."

"I think that's called love, dude."

"No shit."

Dennis lays his head back onto the table and splays his legs out, around Mac's, "I dreamt some weird shit, man."

"Really?" Mac takes a sip, "Elaborate."

"No," Dennis grins to himself, "...no, _no._"

Mac smiles, he knows, he can guess. Dennis had gone on rambles about dreams he'd had about women before, all the gross and strangely very explicit and detailed endeavors he'd experience - it had been six years since he'd last had one of those conversations, he'd resorted to Craigslist to indulge rather than rely on dreams to fantasize, and now he'd just gave up on that as a whole - resorting to the last ever thing he'd ever want to fantasize about: Mac. (And yet, he has, and he's here and they're here together discussing it.)

"Sometimes, you can be too much man, but - you've been making your own decisions, as of late. I haven't gotta boss you around so much." _Oh, it's heaven not to have to order your dinner for you and tell you when to sleep and order you to do everything a normal human being would do without prompt._ "I missed that. I missed you."

"I never went, Dennis," He lowers his voice - the discussion is intimate, so he respects that, even though nobody could overhear if they wanted to, "I just had a lapse in identity, that's all. I… Relied on you."

_Which is no bad thing,_ Dennis thinks, _but it was far too much, too often, after I had returned after a year away from home, expecting some alleviation of stress - not concentration of it. _"How the scales have changed. You carried me home without dropping me once, congrats."

"In my defense dude - you kept getting back into my arms even though I kept dropping you. You knew what was coming but you jumped up and braced yourself anyway."

Dennis tensed himself at the beginning there, he chuckles 'neath his breath, "God, I thought you were going to say I was heavy," he projects himself back to that pollen-filled day and he can feel his nose begin to twitch, _he wouldn't admit that he likes to be held_ \- but it was a rare comfort even when he's ill and writhing and moaning about every little thing Mac does, he doesn't really hate that deep, he just pretends he does so he can neglect showing that he cares. "Maybe, maybe I did. I was too weak Mac."

"Don't give me that - you could walk."

"Could I?"

"You knew - those shakes were pizza. You knew, they had soda in them. You still drunk them. That ball hardly hit you - nothing was legitimately hurting you that day, you hardly ever suffer from hay fever, you_ could_ walk." _But you chose not to, and preferred the sanctity of my arms. _Mac finishes the rest of his tea and handles Dennis's cup, daintily, before heading toward the sink.

"Don't say - don't say it aloud." Dennis shudders as he remembers the flavor - they weren't all bad, but recalling the amount of sugar, and gluten and the unhealthy amounts of fat, he can feel his stomach recoiling.

"What? The shakes? I don't get it man, you aren't lactose intolerant or gluten or anything, you,"

Dennis stands himself up, shakily and ignores Mac's comment - and half distracts Mac from what he was saying, he walks his way over to him before gracing the duster on his shoulders, "Where do you wanna sleep tonight?"

Mac doesn't really take in the question as he soaks in the feeling of the Duster back on his skin, but as he feels Dennis's breath loom around his neck, he snaps back into reality and draws back his own - that's a big question._ Or is it?_ It isn't, really, but it feels like it is. It feels like a proposal but it's really just him asking, which bed would you prefer? Mine which is clean and smells of fresh cotton and strawberries or yours which is lined with grease and stained a light brown? "Uh.. Uh…" But he still can't decide - he still has trouble, to which Dennis puckers his face up and says, "What about we meet in the middle?" The smell of alcohol lingers from his maw, "_The couch?_"

Mac stares at Dennis, "Really?"

Dennis blinks, he's so tipsy that he doesn't really register what his face is doing but he's smiling like an idiot. Mac lunges forward, a little, then dips back, and watches Dennis's reaction - studies it to see if there's any resistance - and there's none - in fact he reciprocates and tries to catch his prototype kiss, but just about misses. They blink in unison, his baby blues meet Mac's hazel, and intertwine and Mac goes in, a second time, and does not pull away. Their lips crash and Dennis almost topples into the kitchen sideboard, he clings against the drawers and Mac's hand writhes up beneath his top, they both sigh into each other and Mac's free hand cups Dennis's and pins it against the wall, and Dennis lets out a profane wail. He sits himself upon the kitchen side and Mac grinds, subtly, against him, with his fingers gently running through Mac's hair - no longer tainted with hair gel, styled like his dads - it's fluffy and soft and soothing, Mac begins to kiss deeper, and his tongue makes use of itself - down his throat, he kisses further and further until Dennis's nostrils are flaring and he stops for a mere moment.

"Carry me." Dennis whispers, panting. Mac nods.

His heels are then curled around Mac's torso, his stockings themselves beginning to stretch as Mac takes ahold of him, and keeps him steady as they moan become one as they rejoin in their kiss, fingers trailing to his zipper as Dennis falls to the couch and buckles against the friction of Mac's body, the pure heat radiating off the man was enough adhesion alone to make him hard. Mac starts to remove his shoes, socks, etc, and Dennis starts to do the same - but despite how in love and desperate he feels in the moment - he stutters a bit, as Mac grabs at his wrist and pins him to the cushions, and he notices, and falters a little - he stops. Their pants aren't off yet. Mac thinks that, maybe he's going a little too fast, and so he starts to suck on the nape of Dennis's neck, which provides a satisfying mewl, and a prompt dig of his nails into Mac's shoulders, but he feels afraid that he's going to do one thing wrong and Dennis will shatter like a china doll. He curves his hands down from Dennis's sides to his crotch and starts to massage, and at first he complies, his face twitches and brows crease, a satisfactory simper is spread across his jaws, small groans escaping his lungs, a look of simple pleasure that was bound to grow given time - but then he tops Mac's hands with his own, and grapples at them harshly, as if to stop him.

"Den, are you okay?"

He bites on his bottom lip and he feels his chest almost cave, "I-I don't know, if I can do this."

"That's okay, man,"

Mac separates himself from Dennis as fast as he can and grabs a blanket to cover over the two of them, "That's okay." _These things take time, if fourteen years isn't long enough, it isn't long enough._

"Was - was it too much."

Mac doesn't answer straight away because he's confused as to what Dennis was referring to, and whether or not it was a question or just something he was saying absent-mindedly to himself, "What? ...The outfit?"

Dennis confirms, in almost a squeak, "Yes."

"No, no, not at all." Mac attempts to comfort but he sees Dennis's demeanor change entirely, his eyes darken and his frame shrinks and he can hear his voice crack before he even begins to talk. He can feel tears, he doesn't wish to predict but he can already _feel_ them. _Almost _perfect. It's as if Dennis can hear what Mac thinks.

"_Why didn't we do this - twenty years ago, Mac?_"

It was rhetorical, of course it was, but there was a multitude of reasons; if they could have gotten together Mac would have gotten them together, but would Dennis have wanted to? Would they have truly agreed on anything? Wouldn't that just cut their love even shorter? He feels his chest tighten. If I weren't homophobic and neckdeep in denial and you weren't chasing after woman everyday, maybe we could of had something beautiful. "Why didn't we love each other before we had to turn so decrepit." He meant to say I. He only saw_ Mac_ as irritatingly ideal. He was forty and old and wrinkly and despite his love of what he wore he felt himself, his body, dissolving before him, turning into a mush, made him feel ill. He couldn't bare to look at it, but his ego demanded it to at least be kept thin, "I can't - why the fuck, was Rex just a fling? Why would you choose me over him? _Haven't you got a modicum of taste?_"

Mac doesn't even need to think, he just opens his mouth and he _knows. _"I've known Rex, what, ten, eleven years, but only briefly throughout those eleven years, I've barely met up with him five times - I've known you for fourteen whole years, non-stop, dude. I know you._ I know that I want to be around you. _I don't know jackshit about Rex other than he's got tight abs and he's a pushover and he's currently in hospital thanks to my boyfriend throwing a bottle at his face."

Dennis's eyes well-up, he shouldn't be feeling, but his whole body is shaking and he turns towards Mac and repeats, "Boyfriend?"

"What else would I consider you, dude?" He pauses, thoughtfully, "Unless you don't want that."

"I want that, I _love_ that." He curls up against Mac and holds him tight, "I… I just, I'm so sorry about, about everything." His grip loosens, so Mac returns the gesture by putting his arms around Dennis.

"I know." He can feel the tears against his chest. _"I know._"

"Ever since Mandy and the RPG and just - leaving for North Dakota - I've never felt the same," he tries to wipe some of it away but they're just as quickly replaced, he's open and he's vulnerable and Mac kisses at his forehead to offer some solace, "I'm just like Frank, I'm just as bad as Frank, I left Brian Jr without a dad, I, Mac I - she wanted me gone though, she-she, she was right to tell me to go, I couldn't handle it."

He never talked about ND, that was the one rule of post-North Dakota Dennis, is that he'd never discuss what went down in North Dakota, but now he was bawling and Mac was trying to help him relax, but it wasn't working, and Mac couldn't exactly cut in - so he allowed Dennis to go on, "Fuck, Mac. What did we miss as kids, as teenagers,_ what if_\- I miss-I miss, how it used to be." His breath hitches, and he breaks out into sobs, _loud, _and it sounds as if he's in agony, Mac clutches him tighter, he's shaking, but he tries to keep him still, and lays his head, gently, upon his back.

"Nothing's changed, Den."

His voice is tender, raw, and tears start to fall down his cheeks, "We love each other and that's all that matters. We've come to terms with it. We're okay, now. We're okay."

We're okay. Now. _Now. _

Tomorrow morning they might be evicted,

okay, _so maybe it won't be that severe,_ but they're still low on money - they'll find a way, though, because they always do, even through the muck of Paddy's somehow they tend to get out of it, generally, unscathed, Rex won't be happy, but they weren't really considering him right this second; they were bunched up in old blankets knitted by Mrs. Mac and scavenged by Charlie and surrounded by pillows all puffed up n' soft, they were sleeping, and stuck in a loving embrace. Dennis's hair is stuck up in tufts and Mac's hand is halfway through it, his legs are coiled between Dennis's and his other arm was branched out across his ribs, holding him loosely against his chest. The makeup had smeared all against the fabric, and all against Mac's digits and all over his lips. Their love was simultaneously careless and the epitome of careful, eyelashes bat, and Mac shuffles a bit out of his sleep, he thinks it a dream at first, surely Dennis wouldn't love him, but he does, it's not a dream, he's been like it since forever - he's just never known until recently. He snuggles his head into Den's neck and absorbs the warmth. Everything about him was perfect - _in his own way_, no almost about it, and feeling Mac against his nape, Dennis smiles, sleepily, in a half-delayed reaction.

Tomorrow morning, no matter the cost of damages,

they were to walk in holding hands above the barside and to kiss as often as they'd like.


End file.
